


May I tell you about Southern winds?

by Angeline Farewell (Neve83)



Category: Home and Away (TV), Marvel Cinematic Universe RPF, Suburban Shootout (TV), hiddlesworth - Fandom
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Coming of Age, Dub-con elements, F/M, First Love, First Time, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, M/M, Romance, bildungsroman
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-08
Updated: 2020-04-30
Packaged: 2021-01-25 19:00:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 12
Words: 29,790
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21361093
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Neve83/pseuds/Angeline%20Farewell
Summary: Tom is a good English boy, Chris is your typical Aussie beach bum. Tom was sure he wanted to study theology and go to a mission in Africa, Chris isn’t sure of anything, he doesn’t even know if he could imagine a future. Their clash could likely make their lives derail, or maybe, it will be the means to put them back in track.
Relationships: Chris Hemsworth/Original Female Character(s), Chris Hemsworth/Tom Hiddleston, Tom Hiddleston/Original Female Character(s)
Comments: 28
Kudos: 39





	1. Hopeless Wanderer

**Author's Note:**

  * A translation of [Ti ho mai raccontato del vento del sud](https://archiveofourown.org/works/698536) by [Angeline Farewell (Neve83)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Neve83/pseuds/Angeline%20Farewell). 

> Ok, people, first thing first: THIS is a soap opera. Plain and simple, nothing more than silly and over the top situations, larger than life characters, bending of any rules of every country mentioned in the story.
> 
> It's a translation of my first hiddlesworth fic too, written six years ago now, in a fandom nobody explored back in the days when mesh ups like this were popular, and - _in my humble opinion _\- it's a tragedy. I loved Bill Hazeldine (Tom) and Kim Hyde (Chris), they deserved more love (and to meet and bang). Anyway, I changed the original characters names to the actors ones because why not. A bunch of original characters were added and the story is set in a universe were the canonical events of the two original shows are explained and explored in the first two chapters, then it's all my invention. No need to really know anything about the shows. 
> 
> English is NOT my mother language and no one beta-ed it, so please bear with it, and if someone will feel so inclined to point out my mistakes I won't be offended but rather thankful.
> 
>   

> 
> The dub-con warning is there for a reason, in later chapters will happend something a little disturbing, but not between Chris and Tom.
> 
> | 
> 
> **Tom Hiddleston** is 19 years old, is English, and is a quintessential Good Boy. As the only child of a police officer and a housewife, he’s very sweet and naïve. Before meeting Jewel Diamond – _the girl who in fact forced him to be her boyfriend<_ – he never had a romantic relationship. He went to a mission to Africa after high school, and he’s considering a theology degree at Cambridge University.
> 
> |   
>   
> ---|---|---  
>   
> | 
> 
> ** Chris Hemsworth ** is 21 years old, Australian, and is _not_ your typical good boy. A gifted athlete, he left the swimming club at school just to spite his father, the no non sense, rigid principal of his high school. He is _very_ handsome and he knows it, outgoing and cheeky, he is an unapologetic ladies’ man, so much he’d risked to become a too young father in more than one occasion. 
> 
> |   
  
When you are twenty years old, you feel immortal. You think yourself grown up enough to make your own decisions, to impose yourself because you are an adult, no matter if those decisions just concern drinking too much or going to sleep when and _where_ you want.

When he kissed Hayley for the first time, Chris knew they were on borrowed time, that they would likely live for a while in a awkward love triangle with the ghost of another man breathing on their neck. But Hayley chose him, not the _ghost_, she accepted Chris ring and his good intentions, and swore the baby in her belly wasn’t the only reason. That child had been all the real reasons instead. A child conceived by mistake, but that surely had many willing candidates ready to be its father.

Chris didn’t want to wake up. He felt so light for the first time in years, and he didn’t want to give up that restful nothingness. If he slept he wouldn’t think about Hayley and her son. Scott’s son, who wasn’t a ghost anymore and came back to take everything away, even the crumbs of a future Chris had imagined, with a family that had never been his to begin with. He almost wanted to thank the drug addict who left him to die like a dog on a roadside.

He didn’t really want to die, though. Because he could hear his father’s voice even through the fog in his mind, and he had always thought that, the day he could make that old unaffectionate fascist cry, he would be happy. Instead, it only made him sadder.

Barry Hemsworth wasn’t a monster, nor a cold man. He was just a wounded man unable to cope with the loss of part of his family, thus renouncing to held together what’s left: a child to care for and love, not an unjust memento, not an enemy.

He lost his wife and a son, but Chris had lost his mother and a brother.

After Kerry left him taking away Jonathan with her, after their sudden death, Barry’s heart hardened, shriveled in his chest, but was still there, beating. And it couldn’t take the loss of another son. That’s why he couldn’t stop weeping, because Chris was twenty-one years old and almost died, and he felt helpless. Again. So, when the doctors and nurses left him alone with Chris, all his stone-cold masks crumbled under the weight of that new pain.

The sun kept shining in Summer Bay, the ocean still danced on the shores, the sky’s still blue. Life went on outside the hospital, but Chris looked like he didn’t want to swim again.

“Come on Christopher, did you really want to give all this up? The sun’s shining, you could be on a surfboard right now, but you’re in a damn bed sleeping instead, because you don’t even have the gut to cry like a man. You just sleep and can’t even tell me to shut up.”

Not even the promised quarrel made Chris wake up, because life wasn’t a soap opera and Chris was sleeping for too many weeks to be still considered handsome: the bruises disappeared, but so had his tan and muscle tone. The life support system covered half his face, so Barry couldn’t even shave him properly, his hair were getting longer.

"You look like a hobo. Or a feral. You know how much I hate the ferals, I was one of them once upon a time. "

Chris finally opened his eyes on a early spring evening. A dense and thin drizzle of those rarely seen on that season was falling, and in the end, it was that anomaly that disturbed his sleep enough to have him open his eyes.

But it took him days to be able to talk again without scratching his throat or sounding like a rusty engine, days before he was able to grasp a cup between his fingers. He slept for weeks, yet he felt exhausted as an old man.

"I brought you a juice since it seems you don’t like the hospital ones."

Barry used all his vacation days, he asked for a few months of leave from work to be with Chris. Chris tried to tease him about it, because in doing so, Barry was smearing his impeccable curriculum, but his father just shook his head, smiling.

"You are most important."

And Chris almost wanted to weep, or punch him, because he was twenty-one years old and his father – for the second time – was making him feel like a stupid kid, and took all his words away. He started tormenting the remote zapping through the channels, because daytime TV really was a hellhole for old ladies and desperate housewives.

“I feel older than you, I’m out of breath and I’m just zapping. I won’t be able to swim anytime soon.”

“Nonsense, nobody would believe you with hair like that. You’ll start physiotherapy in a few days, and everything will be all right again.”

Chris knew his father was right, but he wasn’t sure he wanted to believe him. He wasn’t sure he had the strength, above all. Who was he kidding? He was twenty one years old and he was just a kid playing at being a _Man_ just because it’d always been so easy for him to charm girls into fall with him in the sack. And why should anyone refuse him a job at a gym? He was not a hypocrite, he knew he was good looking, and knew that his body had opened more than one door for him. He was a great advertisement for any gym, girls signed up to have a chance to talk to him, boys because they wanted to be like him. The only thing he was really good at was swimming. But he had thrown away that career too, to spite the man who was now peeling an apple for him. Just like when he was a child and they were four around the kitchen table.

“Eat, Christopher, you need real food or making that sombre face won’t be enough to put together some decent thoughts.”

“It’s an apple, that’s rabbit food. When can I eat some _real_ food like a burger?”

“When you’ll be able to channel hop without losing your breath.”

It took him a month to regain some of the lost muscle tone. He wasn’t back in shape yet, but he had the ocean for that, and all summer to get there.

He had lost his job. Both his jobs actually, because they already replaced him at the gym too. It’d been ridiculously easy to lose everything.

The southern wind was raffling his too long hair, but he didn’t want to cut them. He no longer felt like do anything, really, and it seemed Barry had nothing to except for once; Chris was wondering when it would happen, that impasse was unnerving him most than the forced inactivity of his first few days at the hospital.

Robbie and Tasha visited often, even Zoe did, even if she’d been the one giving him the damn pill: Chris would like to blame her for what happened, but he knew that he alone was the fool in that whole mess of a story. Fool and stupid, because the entire fucking Bay knew that Hayley was head over heels in love with Scott, that he’d been just a momentarily leap of mind, a _mistake_. But there was the baby.

Chris gazed at the ocean letting the southern wind caress him, and couldn’t stop thinking about that child. A child that wasn’t his, but was missed anyway. Even if he was relieved he wasn’t the father, that it was Stott’s child, because in the end Barry was right: he was a kid himself, he couldn’t be a father for anyone yet. He was not ready. He finally understood while he was sleeping, and the sound of crying of a man who was a real father cradled him.

They were in the middle of the summer when, after another fall from the surfboard, his father had finally taken him aside, and Chris, in spite of everything, felt almost relieved.

He was out of the hospital for more than a month, he did physio and the psychotherapy the doctors had advised him – _and his father forced_ – to do.

Dr. Armstrong-no-you-can’t-call-me-Rachel had been a fierce blow to his Ego. She not only declined his advances more than a little amused, she presented him with the reality he always refused to discern: Chris had no idea what to do with his life. He didn’t have a true perspective, never really had. It stung. He was forced to admit his father had always been right, he was a failure and a washout. And it wasn’t a helping thought in those circumstances, not with Barry who’s trying to be compassionate and gentle and was making him lolly water.

"Chris, I know that what happened with Hayley was painful for you, believe me, I understand."

"I know what you want to tell me, it's useless beating around the bush."

"I'm just worried about you. You are my son and, even if you don’t believe it, I just want the best for you. "

Barry was on edge as Chris had probably never seen him. He remembered his father agitated, nervous, angry, and even furious, but never with that expression. He seemed like he was ungluing words from his tongue.

"The sessions with Dr Armstrong have been fine, right? I mean, they helped you.”

"If we want to put it this way. She didn’t give me her personal number. "

"Chris ..."

"I know, I know, I was kidding. Yes, the meetings did go well, happy? They’d been so good that now I agree with you completely. I'm a fail. Now I know."

"Chris, that’s nonsense, you are twenty-one years old and -"

"And I didn’t do anything noteworthy. If you didn’t force me to get my HSC now I would just be another high school drop out."

"But you have it. You're still young, you might still think about Uni. "

Chris didn’t know if he wanted to cry or laugh, because seriously? Thinking about going to Uni with his marks?

“I know you’d love to see me as a doctor or whatever, but it’s not for me, never had been. My marks weren’t so bad just to irk you, believe me.”

"It could still be an option. You don’t have to decide right away, but think about it, okay? I just ask you for this. "

Chris’s problem wasn’t that he didn’t want to think about it, it was that he actually had thought about it too much. He thought about it all the time, and nothing had come out of it. The only things he ‘s been ever sure about were the power of his strokes in the pool and that school was not his thing. He wasn’t able to just sit around and concentrate on a book or anything for too long, he needed constant movement, he needed action.

Chris’s problem was that he couldn’t go out of the house without feeling like chocking. He went out on his surfboard at the oddest times to avoid any contact, he didn’t want to go back to his old, rusted routine, but he didn’t know how to break that vicious circle and finally own his future either. If he could still dream of a future. He felt tired, frustrated, disappointed, disgusted with everything, with himself above all. All his certainties crumbled one after one at his feet along with his Ego, and the worst thing was he knew he couldn’t blame anyone but himself, not even Scott and Hayley and their happiness. He was the one who reacted like a child throwing a fit for a rejection, it was not Hayley’s fault if she hadn’t fallen in love with him, if she was in love with someone else. It ain’t been her who put a pill on his tongue, it wasn’t Scott who made him wash it down with vodka and margaritas. It wasn’t his father who made him leave the swimming club, or made him stop competing. It wasn’t Dr Armstrong who convinced him that, with a body like his, all the doors would always been open. It was his fault alone if he’d found himself at twenty one with nothing in his hands, and little hope of being able to do something about it.

"Chris ..."

And it was his fault if he didn’t have any filter between his brain and mouth and he just wailed everything at his father, that was hugging him tight trying to comfort him.

"It's not too late Chris, it's never too late. I know you don’t see a way out now, but nothing irreparable has happened. "

"Why, because I’m still alive?"

"Yeah, it's a big starting point. You are alive, you haven’t permanent injures, you can start again. And you do not have to do it in Summer Bay. "

Barry kept holding him tight, talking slowly, gently. And Chris didn’t know if he was happy because he was finally seeing his father, or be frightened because he was such a mess even a man like Barry Hemsworth took pity on him.

They talked all afternoon and all evening. They ordered a pizza and watched a movie, just the two of them, and talked, talked, talked. Like two men, like father and son. Chris felt stupid once again, because he was discovering his father just then, he felt like they’d lost so many years, and Barry assured him he felt the same.

Barry told him about his family, the Brit branch of the Hemsworths that didn’t leave their damp little island. He told him about his cousin, above all. They were close despite the distance, friends more than mere kin. They’d chatted a lot in the days following Chris’s _incident_, they were exchanging e-mails constantly.

Chris honestly did not know how it happened, how it went to talking with his father about his Brit cousin, to actually _being_ in England for real. His train would arrive at Cambridge station within ten minutes and despite the intercontinental flight to London, he still couldn’t figure it out how his father convinced him. He couldn’t believe he leaved Australia and everything he knew, and for what?

_A new perspective. A different point of view. A new horizon._

It was enough.


	2. Innocent Bystander

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tom's part of the story.

When the Hiddlestons decided to move from London to the garden suburbs, Tom was already on the plane to the Horn of Africa, and didn’t think much about the change at the time. He graduated with top marks from a prestigious school, he’d been accepted to Cambridge without problem and he had a sabbatical ahead of him: he would spend half a year in a humanitarian mission in Guinea.  
  
Everything went exactly as he wanted, Father Harthford encouraged him to continue on that road, despite the young age he was good with children, he was helpful and patient, kids enjoyed themselves and listened to him willingly. And Tom was glad to be useful to someone, really helpful; he attended a school where the three-quarters of the teachers were clerics and the only club he had enrolled in was the biblical one. He would have liked to play soccer, actually, but Father Peenas (and God saves you for laughing), who taught P.E., was not a team sports enthusiast: he was a seventy-something years old and some hundreds pounds of a man, for him it was enough just looking at kids while they run, or arbitrate the rare cricket matches. Because cricket was important, they were British, what the heck!  
  
It was natural for him thinking about studying Theology. Tom would like to go back to Guinea after graduation, devote himself to humanitarian deeds, perhaps being a teacher in a mission. His parents were happy about his choice, even if his father sometimes joked about his true intentions, fearing he would take the vow. And so he was always asking Tom about girls, and when he would take a nice one home for them to meet.  
  
This, however, was before Little Stempington. Before Jewel Diamond, especially.  
  
Tom came home for the holydays before leaving for Cambridge, and found a very different environment in Little Stempington, more peaceful than Euston where he grew up. Little Stempington really was the little corner of Heaven his mother sought out, it was close enough to London to be able to visit his grandparents, well-connected and pleasant.  
  
His first contact with the suburb hadn’t been so peaceful, though, and that day he would have expected everything but meet the strangest and cutest girl he’d ever seen in his young life. It had been a crash more than a meeting, but it didn’t change anything: Jewel Diamond fell on him and in his life like a comet, with the typical insolence of beautiful, spoiled and extremely bored girls.  
  
Tom was twelve years old when he dated his first and only girlfriend, the most awkward three weeks of his life. Olivia was in his class but she looked a lot older than him. They attended the biblical club together, but their relationship didn’t survived the young teen discovering 5ive and Sean Conlon: after a last close-mouthed damp kiss, Olivia said goodbye to their young love and the biblical club to be a full time fangirl.  
  
That didn’t actually broke Tom’s heart, at the time he didn’t really know what he was supposed to do with a girlfriend. To be honest, he didn’t know how to handle Jewel too, even if he was nineteen and an almost University student. It was a fortune the little Diamonds girl thought things out for the both of them.  
  
Jewel had settled for him, and it was that. She decided that she liked Tom too much to let him go away. She knew she was pretty, and had an Ego large enough to mute any residual doubts. And then there was aunt Hillary too, always there to give her advice about make-up and miniskirts. Diamond’s little jewel well learned Camilla Diamond lesson about love and life: beauty is a weapon to be cared of and preserved, but above all used, to get from life and men what you want.  
  
Jewel was eighteen years old and couldn’t stand that little boring village anymore, she couldn’t stand living in her mother shadow. She was tired and ashamed of being a virgin still, because she never had a real boyfriend and that was pathetic. But if there was one thing she disagreed with aunt Hillary was that; Jewel was a princess and she wanted a fairytale. She wanted Love with the capital letter, not the perv tennis trainer who’s always trying pawing at her ass during their lessons.  
  
Tom was blond and curly, instead, with big blue eyes and a tall, lean body like one of those new models that aunt Hillary hated so much, because she liked men like some Marcus Shenkenberg, but it seemed six packs like that weren’t a thing anymore on the fashion industry.  
  
Tom was the most exciting thing ever arrived in Little Stempington, finding out their mothers were essentially sworn enemies was a even bigger motivation for Jewel, because what else could have made her battle for (sexual) emancipation more thrilling than a Romeo and Juliet story? She craved to wear Juliet’s long gown, in real life and on stage, because she dreamt to be a famous actress too. She just needed to convince her Romeo to wear the due tights.  
  
But it wasn’t easy as she had thought it would be, because Tom really was the nice bloke everybody believed. And their mothers and those old hags of their friends got in her way too! From the Hiddlestons arrival six months before, Little Stempington was unrecognisable, the little town became a caos, as if all the inhabitants were determined to strip off that old patina of respectability and boredom that had always distinguished them. And for Jewel that was just bad timing, because Tom was shy, she needed time and space to court him discretely, or he would go to Cambridge before they could exchange their… _love token_. Jewel decided they would lose their virginity together and she always got what she wanted.  
  
When Joyce Hiddleston had her life threatened and was caught in an international traffic of illegal hormones, it wasn’t just the Little Stempington quiet life that took a shake, for the Hiddlestons it was a shock: if Jeremy Hiddleston feared he’d lost his wife to a French Casanova and his son to a joint, Tom had already projected himself in the part of the newly divorced couple’s son.  
  
It had been such a relief for everyone finding out poor Joyce was just a victim of circumstances and she had no intention to run away with a ruffian Frenchman! So much that even Tom wasn’t interested anymore in the odd behaviour of Little Stempington’s housewives, on why sweet little Joyce seemed to be so comfortable around weapons, and how she and the other ladies met the perv Frenchman, anyway?  
  
Tom was so happy his family was finally safe that he didn’t think much of Jewel increasingly stranger requests, as if that afternoon in a confessional trying to decide if it was time to have sex hadn’t be awkward enough.  
  
It was so hard to resist Jewel when she looked at him in a certain way, when she took his hand while walking, or just lean her head on Tom’s shoulder while chatting on the sofa. She was the cutest girl Tom ever met. But he was a little afraid of her too, because he didn’t know how to take some of her remarks, certainly he didn’t know how to handle her more explicit approaches.  
  
Within few months he would go to Cambridge, and then? What would they do? Jewel didn’t want to go to University, she already thought herself a great actress even if she only acted in a single school production at college that was ripped apart on the town newspaper, but she didn’t think she needed acting lessons. Tom tried to make her change her mind, he talked about the beautiful Cambridge theatres, even told her that they could live together while studying. Needless to say, the last part was the only one Jewel heard, and Tom immediately regretted even mentioning it. Because he needed to graduate, he didn’t know if he wanted to study theology anymore, but he wanted to take a degree: Jewel would be a fatal distraction that he didn’t know how, and would never be able, to handle.  
  
It was the beginning of September when, while making out in her room, Jewel took the matters in her own hands and made him face the reality in the form of a shiny blue little square packet. Tom nearly had a stroke because Jewel just didn’t want to understand that yes, he did want to have sex with her, really wanted to, but he wanted it to be important. He wasn’t interested in sharing a first time if it would be the last too. Tom never was in a hurry to scratch those itches, he didn’t even remember having them before Jewel.  
  
Hence the _Drama_. Jewel accused him of everything and anything, of not loving her enough, not loving her at all, to think she was ugly, to be a cheater. He tried to explain his point of view to her, that he wanted something more with her, something that would last, but Jewel wasn’t listening to him anymore, she throw the condom at him and kicked him out of her room while he was still bare chested.  
  
It had been so awkward finding himself in a sitting room full of middle aged women who were looking at him as if it was hunting season. The blue packet that was stuck in his curls hadn’t been helpful, especially because it was Mrs. Diamond who made him notice it was still there, but the worst was being approached by Mrs. Hillary Davenport who, for the second time, offered to help him, as he would help the other boys waiting outside in the garden. Whatever she meant.  
He run to his home, disappointed and sad, because Tom really liked Jewel, and dreamt to take her with him in Guinea, to teach to little children together. But Jewel was unable to understand that he wasn’t interested in sex if it was the only thing between them.  
  
Once in his room, he tried to call her, but Jewel turned off her phone. He knew she just needed to vent. He loved her, but he knew her enough to know she had a melodramatic bone long a mile in her, so he didn’t really need to fret about her suicide threats. He was still worried, though.  
  
Tom waited three days before trying to call Jewel again. He thought they were enough to let her vent her anger, maybe to make her see things a little more through Tom point of view. He was sure at that point Jewel would be ready to listen to him more patiently, and everything would be fine as before, they would go out for an ice cream and would kiss on a park bench. So, when he went for a jog in the park to clear his mind, he didn’t really expect to find her already sitting on a park bench. Or rather, she was sitting on the knees of a guy sitting on the bench. A guy who looked like a model, like the boys waiting for who knows what in Mrs Diamond’s garden just three days before. Actually, he really was one of those guys.  
  
"Jewel ..." he was not able to avoid that choking rattle. His girlfriend was kissing another man, older, more handsome, more _everything_, and he just wanted to cry.  
  
"Tom." Both of them looked at him, but none of them moved a millimetre from their position. Jewel was obviously still angry with him, but was all of _that_ really necessary?  
  
"Jewel, what are you - ...?"  
  
"Nothing that matters to you anymore! Alex and I are an item, now, aunt Hillary introduced us and she really is an expert about men! He’s not a scared puppy like you, he’s not afraid to treat me like a woman!”  
  
"But ... But it's only been three days ..." And his great love ditched him like yesterday trash. He really wanted to cry now, and Jewel biting glare wasn’t helping.  
“Sorry mate, you should’ve treated her right. We’re moving to London next week, I work there.” Alex looked almost apologising, and above all, really into Jewel. But, unlike Tom, this guy seemed to know how to handle her. And that thought alone was enough to make him almost tear up in front of them, because he was nineteen years old, and his first girlfriend, his first love, had dumped and replaced him with humiliating ease.  
  
So he turned around and started to run again, toward home. He locked himself in his room and really tried to cry, but he couldn’t, he felt so mortified and sad and angry and shaken. He hadn’t expected something like that could happened. In his perfect little dream world there were just him and Jewel, their families as outline, Little Stempington – or maybe Cambridge – as a background. Perhaps it was true he was a just a scared little puppy, that a trip to another continent didn’t help him to grow up even a little bit. Maybe Jewel was right, she chose wisely and got rid of him before it was too late.  
  
Tom didn’t want to talk with his parents, and for the first time he realised that he actually had no one to talk to. The awful reality was he had no real friends. Tom knew many people, many kids, but he couldn’t actually consider any of them as a friend, they all were just fun but shallow acquaintances. It wasn’t a comforting thought.  
  
He didn’t tell them that he wasn’t going to study theology anymore, that he’d been lucky enough to be able to enrol in Political Science and International Relations classes, courses that would certainly be more useful to work with people in developing countries.  
  
His parents would send him the rest of his things in the next few days, but he had time before classes started. He wasn’t in a hurry.  
  
He had been eagerly waiting for the beginning of the university for months, for years, but as he looked out of the window of the train that was taking him to Cambridge, his mind was just blank. He just counted the raindrops that rhythmically beat down on the windows, as if he had no prospects, nothing to wait for him.  
  
It was not a encouraging feeling.


	3. Brace Yourself, Winter Is Coming.

His father warned him England was wet and cold – _wet above all_ – but Chris didn’t really listen to him, because he wasn’t _that_ ignorant, he knew that in Europe and in the Northern hemisphere, August meant summer. When he reasoned it with Barry, however, his father frowned at him, shook his head and mumbled something about how he should have been flunked from school, a couple years more in high school wouldn’t have hurt him.

But how could he know that in England “summer” was just a word, a fleeting parenthesis between rain showers and cloudy sky, at best? Great Britain wasn’t just damp, it was _drenched_. He was in Cambridge from three months and he could count on his fingertips the number of days the sun hadn’t been just a pathetic caricature of himself.

"Chris, darling, breakfast is ready! Get up, it's a beautiful day! "

Lizzy woke him up every morning at thirty past six. She let him sleep a little bit more because, poor kid, Chris needed rest to grow up, as if she hadn’t noticed the poor kid was 6’ 3” and at legal age to drink his head off. But could he really complain?

The Hemsworths of the Brit branch of the family were definitely – and against all predictions and cultural stereotypes – warm and welcoming people, Lizzy and Edwin-please-call-me-Ed welcomed him into their house and life as if they’d known him forever, and immediately tried to make him comfortable.

Ed was nearly ten years older than Barry, and looked like a little (a lot, really) over weighted Boromir. He was a fairly good-looking middle aged man, blond and tall, and so large that most of his patrons called him _Big Ed_. And indeed, Chris had rarely seen a man larger and bigger than himself, but Big Ed was almost 7 feet tall and around 300 pounds of kindness and joviality. A gentle giant indeed.

Lizzy had been his wife from almost three decades and was, on the contrary, a small woman, wired and thin, maternal to a fault. Even though, unfortunately, they couldn’t have children, rather than spiralling into sadness – or worse, sourness – they adopted all the young patrons of Fitzbillies, the small bakery slash cafeteria, they bought soon after their marriage. 

As a matter of fact, Chris was working there to return the favour and thank them for the opportunity.

"Chris! Come on, the bacon is getting cold! "

The cafeteria would open at 8 am to the general public, but there’s obviously some work to be done before then; dining lounge to be set, pastries and cupcakes to be baked and stuffed. So he roll out of the bed and dragged himself downstairs to the kitchen, drew there by hunger more than by the real desire to move.

“Breakfast is all set for you, I’m going to the shop now, the keys are in the usual place, don’t forget to lock down before going out. And don’t forget your raincoat either!”

A beautiful day indeed.

Cambridge was a small town, almost as small as Summer Bay. The Hemsworth - Whitely house was on the outskirts of the city centre, a delightful two-story cottage with a messy garden on the back and lots of rooms for the kids they had hoped to have. A run from the house to the bakery would be a 45 minutes jog at most and, for Chris, it wasn’t even a decent daily training.

When alone in the kitchen, he asked himself again what he was doing there. He liked living with Lizzy and Ed, saying they cared for him as if he was their child was an understatement, but things hadn’t changed so much for him since his days in Summer Bay, because he still didn’t know what to do with himself. And his hair, because he seriously need a barber to tame the mop on his head.

The truth was he was still sleepy and would like to go back to bed, woke up again and look at a real sunshine. And maybe at the ocean, but the sun would be enough for a start, because rain wasn’t helping his social relations and Cambridge girls were too uptight to give him a fair chance. He was tired of sleeping alone, he was tired of the rain, he was fed up with all the little college twats that giggled when they heard his accent: what, they thought their way of talking as they had a lemon between their teeth was better?

It’s been almost six weeks since he got laid, an eternity. She was in Cambridge for summer courses or something like that, Chris didn’t need details not he wanted them. What was important was that she was of age, beautiful and really interested. Who said that catholic girls were reserved? Maybe someone who never had a naughty with an Italian brunette with legs long a mile. Maria spoke a perfect uptight English – according to academics standard. Fuck them too – and wasn’t reserved at all: after flirting for a while over a cinnamon roll and a latte, she waited the end of his shift and flat out invited him to her room.

And then she disappeared.

Usually he was the one always trying to avoid clingy partners after a hook up, but that time it was Maria – the not so prudish catholic girl – that seduced and abandoned him, after an afternoon of incredible sex. She gave him a wrong phone number and never told him that she’d leave Cambridge in a few days. Not that he wasn’t expecting more than sex from her, but still…

To be honest, it was the first time something like that happened to him, and he was a little upset. Actually, a lot upset, his pride was more than a little bruised.

In England he should have had a fresh start, yet he seemed unable to get out of the old path, always relentlessly doing the same old thing he did in Australia. Just without the sun and the ocean.

That morning wasn’t any different, because it wasn’t a good one: he very obviously forgot his raincoat and it started to rain just when he was halfway to the shop. Once there, much to Lizzy’s delight and Chris endless annoyance, half the student population in Cambridge seemed to gather in their bakery, crapping the floor with their muggy shoes.

He hated rain and he hated kids, above all those kids, with their big books and incomprehensible and perfect accent, and their heads full of projects.

They started swarming in town towards the end of September. At first they’d been on their own, all shy and wide eyes, then they started to form little and not-so-little groups, and became increasingly louder and pestering.

Like that Stewart, the pimply eighteen years old boy Lizzy forced Ed to hire, even though he had no references or skill. But University wasn’t cheap and the kid had to start working somewhere to gain experience, so, after those words of wisdom, Big Ed just nodded gravely and psychologically braced himself for double shifts. With a policy like that, Chris couldn’t fathom how they were still in business, despite their wonderful pastries and the beautiful wedding cakes Lizzy and Vicky – Posh for friends and old customers – made and decorated. Maybe having good hearts paid off.

“Sweetheart, bring your great Aussie ass here, you promised to help me with deliveries!”

“Ok, just let me put those pies on display and I’ll come.”

It wasn’t true. Vicky always did the deliveries on her own from ten years, but Posh seemed to always notice when he was in a foul mood too. Chris was still ashamed about it, but it had been Posh who comforted him after Maria, the Italian jerk. Chris hadn’t called her that in front of Posh, of course, because Vittoria – not _Victoria_ – was half Italian herself, and he didn’t want to risk a good slap. Posh was small, but had big hands. Her nickname was due to a resemblance to her more famous homonym and a rampant passion for fashion. 1950’s fashion.

“What got into you today? And please don’t tell me is the rain, because that’s a stupid pretext.”

Before landing to Heatrow, Chris thought Brits were like the characters in the books school forced you to read: fossilized in a Victorian, sad, but overly courteous era. Since he was there, however, he’d been surrounded by women who could make him talk about his feelings just crooking their eyebrows.   
Posh checked her cherry lipstick in the rear view mirror while waiting at a red light. She just applied some more to be safe, than smoothed down the folds of a blouse stretched over a bosom that her famous homonymous would never have the courage to ask her surgeon to, than looked back at him.

"It's almost green."

"And the road is deserted, it is office time, why do you think we do deliveries now. Don’t change subject, what is it? And don’t tell me it's still for that twat that fucked and left you or I’ll have to slap some sense into you! "

"No! No, of course not! "

"So?"

"It’s ... Aren’t you sick of all those kids? I'm going crazy, they're noisy and dirty and they don’t spend so much money at the shop, of course they're not the main source of income and ... "

"Chris."

"I don’t know, I hate kids."

Traffic light turned green, but Vicky just parked the van in the first available spot.

"What are you doing…?"

“Are you listening to yourself? _Kids_? Those _kids_ are Uni students, they are all eighteen or nineteen, some of them are even older. And you’re twenty one for god’s sake! Just twenty-one. Do you really think that just being two or three years their senior, and having lost your virginity as soon as you hit puberty, gave you right to talk about them like this?”

Chris stared at her open mouthed like the idiot he felt he was at that moment. Posh was not wrong, who did he think he was? Those kids were his peers! He averted his gaze, confused and embarrassed, he just wanted to dig a hole in the ground and bury himself.

“Don’t make that face, handsome, and don’t worry you’re not just good looking: I’m sure there’s a great brain under all those blond hair, you just need to start the engine. And believe me, the sooner the better.”

“I think it’s broken, it won’t start again. Ever. ”

Vicky took his face between her hands, and smiled at him as if he was a child.

“Trust someone who already did her MOT test, you never tried to really start it. Maybe you need a little help, and who knows, it’d come before you expect it. Maybe even in forms you don’t expect. There’s still time, _kid_.”

And then she printed a kiss on his forehead, leaving a semi permanent cherry stamp.

The day, however, didn’t turn for the best after that chat, not did it go smoothly either. Because Stewart – that pimply lofty _kid_! – dropped two cups of Ed’s vintage collection and Big almost lost his temper. It was for a mere miracle that Stewart didn’t poured an entire teapot of boiling hot tea on their oldest patron ample bosom, stepped on every toe of every single costumers of the day, got wrong almost half of the orders. A hell day, in short. So much that even Lizzy felt compelled to talk to the kid.

Since he was in Cambridge, he’d became the poster boy of healthy life style, so it was in bed at 10 pm, while in Summer Bay the only night he spent indoors home where the ones he had _company_. That night, however, he didn’t seem to be able to fall asleep, too tense to stop fidgeting and turn around between the sheets. So he put on his sneakers and – with the pretext of having forgot his phone - which was true, by the way – he started to run to the town centre.

Running always helped him clear his mind in the past, even after a fight with his father or his best friend Robbie. Focusing on his muscles and breathing helped him put his thought in order.

But Cambridge nights weren’t like Summer Bay’s, there was no ocean whispering in the background, only winds between branches that were starting to lose their leaves. It wasn’t really cold even if it was October already, and it wasn’t raining anymore, thank God. But the mild weather wasn’t helping anyway, because his thought were so tangled he just couldn’t relax, his anger and frustration just grew stronger.

He thought about his father in Summer Bay and he didn’t feel like thanking him for sending him there anymore. He thought about the three months he already spent in England and the warm family he’d found, but he had no friends. He found himself at the starting point again, without a perspective and without a girl.

He devoured the road to Fitzbillies in half the time he usually did, adrenaline was pumping his muscles but didn’t seem to be able to dim his brain, not even a little. He felt wound up, he felt the desperate need to vent, to fuck, to have a punch up with someone, just _whatever_.

He wasn’t in the right state of mind to quell a fight for sure, but when he saw the three wankers pushing around a… kid? He was still distant, but from what he was seeing, he was a skinny lad with a mop of blond curls on his head, and he couldn’t be more than fifteen years old. Definitely a kid, that one. Anyway, when he saw those misfits lashing out on the poor kid, he seized the moment, incited by the thought of the good deed he was about to do too.

"Hey! What the hell are you doing, let him go! "

The three turned towards him, but were more annoyed than surprised, they didn’t even attempted to escape and Chris was glad for it: he needed the fight. They were older than him, maybe in their late twenties, just some bored ockers.

One of them, maybe the losers’ leader, took a couple of steps toward him, assessing him with a mockingly half smirk, but Chris didn’t bolt. They were three against one, so? He could take down ten bullies like them.

“What we have here, uh? What’s the matter lad, are you here for our little damsel in distress?”

“Look at him, poncey, isn’t he your mighty prince?”

The asshole who was seizing the kid’s shirt, painfully forced him to look at Chris, making his neck nearly snap. Nevertheless, the boy’s eyes faintly lit up with something like gratitude and hope, almost as he already trusted Chris.

Well, what else could he do?

“Let him go and make yourselves scarce, idiots, are you deaf as well as wimps?”

That seemed to do the trick. The bully who still held the kid pushed him down, but at least he’d let him go. The three wankers started to come his way.

“Ohhh, blondie here’s talking big. Maybe it’s personal, were we groping your _girlfriend_?”

“Maybe? If you want to beat up a faggot, try one your size.”


	4. There is nothing better than a friend (unless it is a friend with chocolate).

When he moved to Pembroke hall of residence, Tom was depressed and very little inclined to indulge in his usual optimism. What happened with Jewel still burn, and he couldn’t find any bright side in being dumped, no matter what his mother said. And he hadn’t come to terms yet to the fact that, with Jewel, he’d just spent few weeks more than with Olivia back when he was twelve. But Jewel was special and he’d let her slip between his fingers like a fool, just because he wanted “_to do things right_”, because he gave heed to too many people that never had a girlfriend in their lives, so what could they know? Nothing, as it seemed. And Jewel had dumped him for a lad with straight hair and no worries.

Once in his new room and in his new life, however, that sense of loss dimmed a little; the dorm was full of people, boys and girls swarming around from room to room, from one floor to another, they were all around his age and were there for his same reasons. Maybe he could make new friends, _real_ friends, finally.

But after two weeks of classes, he realized he made a fundamental mistake: he shouldn’t have wait so long to move to Cambridge, because now everyone seemed to have found all the friends they needed. University was totally different from college, or the biblical club, no one was forced to talk to anyone because of confined spaces and lack of alternatives, so if you didn’t look like an interesting enough bloke, you were destined to be a wallflower.

In those two weeks he just exchanged notes and no more than a few words with a couple of fellow students, but nothing seemed to change since the sterile conversations in the biblical club.

That was why he preferred to study in his room rather than at the library. Or at the church, because the smell of incense seemed to daze his brain enough to make macro-economics’ concepts reasonable (and shareable).

He was at the church that Thursday too, just twenty yards or so away from the dorm, he studied quietly sitting on a bench in the heavy and unreal silence that can be found just in holy places. 

He was usually back at the dorm before the evening mass, but that day, who knows why, there was any functions. And he’d been so focused trying to decipher the concept of “symbolic social behaviour” that he didn’t hear the bells ringing. It was the priest that, at eleven p.m., kindly told him the church was closing for the night.

That was the reason he’d been still on the street, alone and without his raincoat, at such a late hour. And flagging a sign saying “loser” apparently, because Cambridge had a very low crime rate, and it was rare for layabouts from other towns to venture into the University fortress looking for fun.

Needless to say, that night three of them found their fun just a few yards from Pembroke main gates.

He idly pondered about the situation as a perfect example of “_unacceptable social behaviour or bullying_” example, perfect for an essay for his Social Psychology class. Because it was fairly apparent he’d been targeted by three big thugs, he didn’t even need the first push to be sure of it.

It was the hair. Tom was sure it’d been the hair that attracted that unwanted attention. One look at his cupid blond hair and it’d been open season.

“What we have here? A fairy?”

And it had begun.

He didn’t know how long they pushed and tossed him around, he only knew he wanted it to end soon. Tom didn’t even had is phone or his wallet with him, or he would had barter them away for a truce. The attempt to make it to the dorm just earned him such a clout, his face would surely be blue next day.

Tom didn’t even dream to reply to their taunting, half the slurs they were hurling at him were utterly incomprehensible. And, anyway, those yobs where all a lot bigger and heavier than him, and, above all, embittered. About everything.

“What, you git, are you looking down on me?”

Especially since they were all shorter than him.

"Hey! What the hell are you doing, let him go! "

An unknown deep voice resonated like an angels choir piercing the silence of the night just when the shortest of the thugs took him by the neck to pull him down.

From the position he was forced in, Tom wasn’t able to really take a look, but the new arrival looked a big enough lad, fit enough to take down a couple of bullies. Os so Tom hoped, he would hate to be the reason of someone else disgrace, although he was really grateful about the attempt rescue.

When he was threw on the ground, Tom thought it was the end of it all, surely those gits weren’t bored enough to risk attracting someone attention, or maybe – as if! – even coppers. Even if he couldn’t feel his left cheek, a shoulder and his tailbone anymore, he felt almost relieved.

Things went very differently, instead. Because before his eyes, all hells broke loose, the blond lad rushed to his aid was faced by the three brutes, but he took them as if he was expecting just that. The kind stranger knocked them down one after one, he suffered some blows, of course, but he quickly recovered to hit his opponent twice as strong. Unbelievable.

"Damn, let's go, this arsehole is not worth it!"

Though he saw the backs of his assailants running away towards a side street, Tom still could not believe what just happened.

His books, his backpack, his scarf, were still scattered on the cobblestone, but his hands trembled so much that he couldn’t pick up anything.

"Do you need help?"

His saviour approached him with a smile, hand extended towards Tom; he looked like those Western movie heroes a la John Wayne, tall, strong, handsome and full of good intentions. Someone perfect, someone Tom could never be, someone Jewel would have liked. But that blond bloke wouldn’t take her away from him, because he was a good lad who saved strangers, who’s sweatshirt was ripped in a brawl he didn’t cause.

"Hey, are you alright? Look they left, no need to worry anymore ... "

The stranger crouched in front of him and started to collect Tom’s belongings, and he just wanted to cry, because that stranger was the first person to show him a little attention and kindness since he set foot in Cambridge, the only one who asked him how he felt. And no, he wasn’t feeling well, because he felt alone, that’s the truth.

"Thank you. Who knows what they’d do to me if you hadn’t come to my rescue. "

It had been little more than a whisper, but the gentle bloke nodded at him without saying anything and put his hand on Tom shoulder to console him.

"They were just three daft tools, but they found what they deserved."

Then he held out his hand again to help Tom get up and, that time, Tom accepted it without thinking twice. He put his scarf on again but, though the evening wasn’t cold, he couldn’t stop shivering. He knew he had nothing to be afraid of anymore, but his knees didn’t immediately get the memo and turn to jelly anyway.

The church’s bells started tolling, it was a quarter to midnight and Tom could not believe the entire debacle just took twenty minutes at most. And he couldn’t believe that, just more twenty minutes later, he was sitting in an empty bakery with the stranger who saved his life and kept taking care of him.

"There, it’s hot chocolate, it should help calm you down."

"Thank you. Sorry."

"For what? Be careful, it’s hot... Tom, right?"

Tom smiled gratefully, and then burst out laughing when noticing what Chris was trying to put on his bruised cheek.

"It's a frozen brioche!"

“I know, but there’s no ice in the freezer, and ice cream pies are not quite recommended in those situations!”

"Clearly not, I’ll be a mess of cream and crusts in minutes!"

The ridiculous image made them laugh again, and Tom suddenly felt better. Was it how it felt like having friends? Feeling safe despite the problems, feeling understood in spite of your inadequacies, feeling good just goofing around?

Tom knew that he’d never felt that way before, with anyone. It was both a depressing and electrifying thought, for he was nineteen years old, and the boy sitting next to him chatting over hot chocolates and lukewarm pastries while scratching his peeling knuckles, could become his first true friend.

"So you work here?"

"Temporarily. The owner is my uncle, my dad's cousin actually, and he host me while I’m in England. The least I could do is to help with the bakery. "

"It's kind of you, I don’t know how many people would work on vacation."

"No, no, it’s not like this, I'm not here on vacation."

"Oh."

It was not a very clever reply, but Tom did not know what else to say or what to ask without being intrusive. Chris didn’t have to explain himself to Tom, after all, he already did so much, giving him hot drinks and wonderful pastries too. How come he didn’t notice the bakery before since it was all but glued to his college?

"Oh, I do not know, I think your pals take turns coming in, because we are always full of students. Too many, if you’re asking me. "

That’s why. The only times he tried to follow the flow of his fellows to a particular place he had found himself standing alone, not knowing where to sit, because he still did not have enough confidence with anyone and everyone had someone to talk to. So in the end he decided to try opposite roads and always ended up studying alone in his room or in the church. But he won’t do it again.

"But why did somebody want to psychoanalyze the masses?"

"Psychoanalyze what?"

"That's what your book says."

Chris was pointing to his _Social Psychology_ book, which he had not yet opened, and was giving it a unconvinced gaze.

"I don’t know, I didn’t start that course yet. Can I have one of those pastries? They are so yummy!"

Neither of them was sleepy anymore, nor felt like leaving. They just talked about nonsense eating yesterday baked goods for hours, till first lights of dawn, when a big, tall man and a small curvy lady that looked like she belonged in a black and white film, came in the shop and found them.

"Chris! My God, what are you doing here? Why are you not at home? You are not in your bed! And you're hurt! Liz will have a heart attack! "

The huge blond Boromir, who Tom supposed to be Big Ed, looked like _he_ was having an heart attack and Chris rushed to reassure him. He and the brunette lady - Tom figured she was the famous Posh – make Ed sat down and made him a herbal tea to try to calm him, while Big Ed squeezed Chris to be sure he wasn’t injured.

"I'm not hurt! They're just scraped knuckles, it's just a ripped sweatshirt, the goods under are safe , I promise! "

Tom did not really know where to look or what to do. He desperately tried not to smile, for such a big man with a frightened and helpless expression was certainly not something that he often sees..

"And you, darling? Who would you be? Oh my, your face is black and blue! "

Tom didn’t had the time to say anything, not even to apologise, Chris was forced to make presentations and explain what happened the previous night. Posh didn’t allowed Tom to open his mouth, just made him sat down under a spotlight to check on his big bruise, then rummaged in her Poppins-like purse and produced a miraculous – her words – ointment that would help with his swelling face.

Big Ed, for his part, was already in the kitchen where he was bustling about stoves and dough to make a real breakfast for them.

"You do like chocolate, do you, kid?"

Nobody had called him kid since Tom was in middle school, when Father Peenas screamed after his pupils to slow down on the field because they weren’t running for an Olympic medal. And yet it was fine for Tom, he was even pleased that that gentle big man was calling him a kid. He was a kid, after all. The previous one had been a day to forget, but that new one… it definitely promised to be much batter. Even just for Chris who was smiling at him while bringing him a new mug of hot chocolate.


	5. I’ve got nothing to do today (but smile)

Cambridge's life was not so bad once you get used to the different and slower pace of the old continent, but it was just a matter of habit. After all the pubs were nicer, warmer, more welcoming, the beer tastier, the day off from work awaited with more anticipation.

Sprawled on a perfectly made small double bed Chris was pretending to read an old magazine while looking around the small room, cataloging the furniture out of boredom. The white and somewhat sad little curtain that covered the window and the shit weather outside, the basic closet large enough for the content of a single suitcase, a desk full of books, papers and biscuits crumbs. He hang out at Tom’s tiny room for a month now, and he knew every littlest details of it. Tom was at his desk curved over a large pile of paper sheets, reading and scribbling notes for over an hour, and it wasn’t very nice of him, as he had a guest. It was Friday and Chris had a free evening from work, but November weather is shit everywhere, as it seemed, in England in particular.

_No shit Sherlock. _

It was raining outside and was cold enough that going out wasn’t pleasant anymore. So, when Chris showed at Tom’s dorm door unannounced – as always – he couldn’t muster an excuse good enough to drag him out and away from his books. Even Posh’s special biscuits were not enough to bribe him; they had their tea break and that’s it, Tom just returned to his studies. And he wasn’t likely to stop anytime soon.

Chris snorted emphatically to attract his attention. Tom reacted scratching his head with the pencil before scribbling something on the sheet he was reading.

Chris loudly changed position on the hideous bedcover. Tom just turned the page.

Nothing, there was no way to distract him, and Chris had to accept it. It was not the first time they were stuck in a similar stall, but it usually happened before a test: but it was Friday, and on Saturday Tom did not have any courses, why was he studying !?

He was bored and did not know what to do, but he did not want to go out alone either. Although everyone found it strange, he liked Tom's company, a lot. He had never known anyone like that strange Brit kid, so skinny and with crazy hair, and he would never have imagined they would meet again after their first encounter.

Yet it happened.

Maybe because Tom actually came back to the bakery the very next afternoon, with a book under his arm and a smile that lighted up a face swollen and sickly purple. Just what it took to be adopted by Liz too, of course. He went to the bakery every afternoon since then, always with a book and a smile, and the desire to tell everyone about how Chris saved him.

Chris never expected to meet someone who didn’t understand double meanings and took whatever was told to him to heart, he never anticipated he would actually like such company, that he would even seek it out. But it happened, and Chris wondered if England wasn’t actually bad influence, because it was Friday afternoon and he wasn’t out chasing girls, but was lying down bored to death in a stupid dorm room.

"Ouch! Why did you do that?"

"What?"

"You throw something at me!"

"Not true, it wasn’t me!"

Tom looked exasperated, but it was nothing new for them, so Chris was not worried: Tom reaction was also anticipated.

"Chris, I have to study."

"It's Friday afternoon. You _do not_ have to study. "

“On Monday I’ll have to introduce the first lesson of Social Psych. You wanted to know why they’re psychoanalyzing masses, right? Well, I’m trying to figure it out.”

"But it's Friday! We didn’t even jog this morning! "

“Chris, it’s raining for two days in a row now, why should we risk pneumonia when it’s almost holidays time?”

Everyone else would have been sarcastic, even derisive, but Tom’s tome was just curious. Tom wasn’t the kind of guy that pointed at someone laughing when they say something really stupid. But Chris couldn’t come up with a decent pretext, because the truth was too embarrassing. Truth was that Chris preferred Tom’s company to anyone else’s, even if they were so different, and Tom was so much more well-read than him, Chris never once felt stupid with him. When he was with Tom he never felt the need to fill silence, Chris could watch him study for hours without feeling the weight of loneliness or neglect.

"So, are you still going back home for Christmas?"

Tom passed a hand through his curls, messing them up even more. He was nervous. Tom always did it when he was uneasy, and Chris avoided to wonder one more time how he knew such details after so little time knowing each other.

"I have to. My mother would never forgive me if I don’t. Actually I want to see them again, it’s not really Christmas if you don’t spend it with family, right? "

“You don’t look so thrilled, anyway.”

Another hand through his hair. A brief titter.

"No, I’m not."

“Come on, it’s for that bitch again? Tom you can’t avoid her forever, and you can’t think forever that’s been your fault, it’s ridiculous!”

"Jewel is not a bitch, don’t say that, you ..."

“Tommy Tommy Tommy, if roles were reversed, she would still be crying with her girlfriends about how you was a traitor and a pig, trust me. The least you can do is call her an arsehole behind closed door. Anyway, if she was so beautiful and perfect, how come you didn’t want to bang her?”

Tom opened his mouth to reply, but just blushed brightly and lowered his eyes, humiliated. It wasn’t something he liked to talk about, Chris knew it, but Tom needed to do it sooner or later. Chris knew a couple of girls that had a thing for that little curly disaster, but how could he support their cause if Tom kept thinking about that arsehole – because she was, damn! – of his ex? He must do something, and do it quickly. 

But maybe he should have used a softer tactic, because Tom didn’t look very willing to spill the beans. He was resuming his studying.

"Tom?"

"I have to study or on Monday I'll make a disaster, it's the first lesson of the course and I have a new tutor."

"Tom."

“Chris. I’m serious, it’s not about Jewel, but it’s not right to call her a bitch, I have my own responsibilities in how our relationship ended. It’s just… I don’t want to go back to Little Stempington, it’s a strange place. I’d rather stay here, or go back to London, I don’t know. My mother is so weird since they moved there. Don’t look at me like that, it’s true.”

“So it’s nothing to do with your ex and you don’t date because you want to stay a virgin to earn your white gown?”

“What! No! Stop laughing! Look, you can do whatever you want when you want, so it’s normal if you don’t understand me, but I must study, I have to do this thing or I won’t be able to go back to Africa or work for an NGO, I won’t be able to do shit and I’ll miss out any opportunity.”

"You're nineteen and ..."

“And it’s my first year at Uni, if I don’t lay a solid foundation now, when? I’ll have time later for everything else.”

The conversation was taking a completely unexpected turn, and Chris begun to feel uncomfortable. Tom looked at him with his big eyes as to beg him to understand his great aspirations, his need to go ahead, to grow. To understand that it was time to fuck off.

"Where are you going?"

"At home. You’re studying, I don’t want to bother you. "

"You're not disturbing me, I never said that."

"You are building your future, I don’t want to be an obstacle."

"And now why are you so upset?"

"I'm not upset."

"Yes you are and I don’t understand why. What did I say to offend you so much? "

"Nothing, I’m going home."

Chris had to leave soon, or he would end up doing something he would regret. It wasn’t Tom’s fault if he’s nurturing real and sensible ambitions, and didn’t want to be sidetracked by an idiot. Chris had to go home, he was beginning to feel claustrophobic in that room, Cambridge made him claustrophobic, the whole damn England was too small. He needed to go, all those nonsense about time and blah blah blah what had been if not a further waste of time? And Tom was still looking at him mortified, as if it was all his fault. And it was not. Or maybe it was, because in all those weeks spent together Chris thought he’d found someone simple, someone easy to relate to. A _kid_, damn it!

“Look, I haven’t it in for you, really, I’m not upset. But it’s better if I go home, so this week end you can study and be ready for your Monday lesson.”

“Aren’t we supposed to hang out tomorrow?”

"I thought you wanted to study for Monday."

"Yes, but I am doing it today to be free Saturday."

"And what makes you think I would have time to do ... whatever you have in mind?"

Chris was such a raw nerve at that point that Tom discouraged expression – that genuinely confused face – was just another low blow in that crap afternoon. Tom took for granted they would spent the week end together, as if Chris had no life outside Fitzbillies and a stupid English boy with awful hair. The worst thing was that he was right.

"Tomorrow is your free day."

"So?"

"I don’t know, I thought we would hang out, sorry, if you have other things to do it’s not a problem. Sorry."

"I don’t."

"Well, then ..."

"Then nothing, maybe I do not have time anyway, okay?"

"See? You’re angry."

"I'm not angry!"

"Don’t yell at me then!"

It was the first time Tom raised his voice with him, that looked angry at him, and Chris was stunned. Maybe because Tom had all the reasons in the world to be angry while Chris had any. Chris still kinda wanted to hit him, gave him such a black eye a frozen pastry wouldn’t be enough to ease the pain. He just wanted to make Tom shut up, go out of that room and never come back. Who needed Tom, anyway? Not Chris for sure, it wasn’t him who started looking for friendship. It was Tom who kept coming back to the bakery, he was the one who needed company.

"Listen," Tom sat down again - and when he got up? - and run his finger through his curls. Again. "I know I’m not a good sport when I’m studying, but I don’t expect you to skip your job when I'm bored, so ... I don’t know, what is the real problem? Are we really arguing because you’re bored? "

"..."

Tom was doing it again, he had that expression again: he did not understand what was happening, and he thought it was his fault. The same expression that made Chris think he had the right to consider Tom somehow less that a men. When, if anything, it denounced perhaps naivety, not immaturity.

What could Chris answer? Yes, he was bored and was tired and didn’t know what to do with his life. He looked around but nothing really interested him, caught his attention long enough to stuck, just like in Summer Bay. But back in Australia he at least had the ocean to distract him, in England the only thing he had was a mirror reflecting desolation.

"I think you should leave your job at the Fitzbillies."

"What?"

Chris hadn’t expected _it_. Not from Tom, not from anyone.

"You should leave the job at Fitzbillies. You hate that job and it's apparent believe me. You should do something that you really like. "

"I do not hate Fitzbillies, only the people who attend it. And anyway, I can’t go back to Australia yet, in a few months maybe, but not yet. "

"Sorry, didn’t you come here to change perspective? What’s the point in going back? Actually you can swim also here in England, no need to go Down Under again."

"Who said I want to swim again?"

"You?"

"And when did I do it? If I wanted to be a lifeguard I would have stayed at home! "

“I didn’t mean anything like that! Didn’t you say you were competing back in school and you were really good at it? Haven’t you told me you would like to go back in the pool?”

“Tom, as tempting as the idea is, it’s also ludicrous. I’m almost twenty-two, it would take me at least a couple of years to get fit enough for high level competitions, I’m too old to start all over again. See? Not everyone knows the meaning of time.”

Tom was looking at him with a mix of compassion and disbelief. Perfect, now he’d finally realized too what an utter failure Chris was. Six feet and three inches of Australian stereotype with no future.

"I'm sorry…"

"Yeah, me too."

“I’m so, so sorry, I didn’t think you wanted to compete again, I thought you was actually speaking about teaching, how stupid of me, I’m really sorry. I didn’t mean to upset you.”

"Teach?"

"Yes, become a swimming teacher I mean. I do not know why I thought it, maybe because you're always so patient, and then you already have a certificate, right? "

"Yup…"

"You should only take the teacher's qualification. But I realize it's a stupid thing, because you would like to compete instead, sorry. "

Chris couldn’t believe his ears. Tom looked so ashamed and sorry for him, and he hadn’t realized he had probably saved Chris’s life instead. How come he hadn’t thought about it? Chris loved water, he loved to swim, everywhere. Nothing ever made him happier than swimming, he just hadn’t like the competitions, being judged for something he just loved so much.

Swimming _teacher_. It sounded good, really good. Maybe teach to children, Chris liked children, even if he wasn’t ready to become a father yet, but for that he was too young indeed. He actually coached a couple of friends and schoolmates to swim and surf back at home, he was good at it, he knew how to do it, he could do it well.

And that thought was a burst of pure adrenaline through his veins, he felt finally alive after months, perhaps years, getting by in a limbo he believed eternal.

Tom still had his head bowed in shame, but Chris would kiss him for what he just did for him. Chris simply pulled him out of the chair to embrace him as he had never done with anyone else.

"Tom, you're a damn genius!"

And he was smiling again. Really smiling.


	6. Happiness was born a twin

Christmas time in Northern Europe starts early.

Shop windows were flooded with red and gold ribbons and lights, pubs and restaurants added new drinks and dishes to their menus, colours everywhere became brighter and cheerful. All that since early November.

Cambridge was no exception, and Fitzbillies was even warmer and more welcoming. Posh playfully strutted amongst the tables with her lavish bell-like skirts and festive jumpers, she was a jolly sight for all the patrons for more than ten years.

"Why the long face, sweetie? Come on, it's almost Christmas! "

Winter break was close, and Tom didn’t know how he would do without Posh infectious smile and Big Ed pastries. He was heading home in two days but he’d rather stay; Tom even thought asking Chris to spend Christmas with him and his family, but he didn’t know how. Chris was already so far from his father and friends, how could he ask him to leave his uncles too?

“Tom, get that book lost, you’re done with your classes, so you do _not_ have to study!”

Chris was still working at Fitzbillies. Two weeks had passed since their first real fight flowed into – who knows how – an awareness, but Chris won’t leave his uncles without help. But his hours were cut down, because he started to attend a big sports centre with Olympic pools just a few miles from his home. Next March he would attend classes to become a swimming coach, and the perspective alone had had such an impact on his spirits he even walked with a new spring in his step. Chris whole behaviour changed, he was also more patient with the patrons, was gentler with the older ladies who tipped him more generously and pinched his cheeks laughing, charmed by his unusual accent and his new manners. He was more serene indeed, he looked finally happier.

Lizzy said those changes were all thanks to Tom, but Tom knew it wasn’t true; he had given Chris a simple hint, nothing else. Chris could do all he wanted, he just had to _want_ to do it. And he wanted to swim.

Eventually, they had spent that whole weekend buried in Tom's dorm room or at Chris's room, searching on the internet all the information available on courses and certificates. They printed piles of papers with data, addresses and documentation required. Chris had been on the phone with his father for almost an hour, he was so happy and could not hold it for himself. They spent two days planning and making projects and, at the end, Tom knew almost more than Chris on IoS and ASA * and similar.

They went to Sawston to inquire about the courses on Monday, a long bicycle ride under a thin drizzle that had them drenched to the bone. Chris had been uncharacteristically silent along the way to the school, and Tom, after a couple of failed attempts to take Chris’s mind off, decided to let him be.

After, when they were on their way home, Chris couldn’t help but talk and laugh, then talk again, asking Tom questions he didn’t need an answer for. Tom had never seen him so happy and excited. Chris had listened to the secretary of the centre all focus and intent, asked for explanations and more specific information, and when he’d been sure he could attend that specific course in a few months, he just went crazy with joy and squeezed Tom in a bear hug that left the cute secretary behind the desk puzzled, and maybe even a little disappointed. Who knows why.

They accepted Chris application without any problems, because Christopher Hemsworth was a professional athlete back in Australia, and his lifeguard certificate was enough to let him in the advanced class.

Tom had laughed with him until they were strolling back into Fitzbillies, soaking wet. Lizzy almost fainted seeing them, she shooed them quickly to the back of the bakery to dry up and warm up near the ovens. Posh looked at them fondly and gave them hot chocolate and biscuits before hugging both tightly.

“Tom, come on, burn that book, you are on vacation! Stop studying, your face looks funny when you think.”

"It's not true!"

"Yes it is. Here, taste these instead, Lizzy’s new recipe. "

They were sitting next to each other at the counter as they always did, and Chris pushed a plate of colourful decorated biscuits in front of Tom.

It was not so unusual to see them like this, so close and sharing sweets, whether or not Chris was working. It started since the first day, when Tom came back to the bakery after a night to forget with a green and purple cheek, and was still all formal with Big Ed. No one really spare a thought anymore for such an usual sight, and, instead, some old ladies always asked Chris if, God forbid, Tom was angry with him when they didn’t see Tom at the bakery for a few days in a row. It was something that seemed to greatly amuse Lizzy and Posh, while Big Ed reprimanded them to mind their own business.

Tom imagined they were making fun of him – or them both – about something, but he didn’t care, because at Fitzbillies he found a new family he was really fond of, even when Posh made him blush so hard him with double meanings so explicit that even he could grasp them.

But Tom didn’t care, because they always kept the best spot at the counter for him, saved some of his favourites pastries for him, and Liz always make lunch for Tom too.

Since the day he met Chris, Tom started to love Cambridge life, so much he never would have wanted to go back home. He didn’t want to give up the rainy days they spent watching silly movies, or the afternoons Chris agreed to waste so as to listen to Tom rehearse a new lesson.

Tom felt so comfortable with Chris, he never felt like that not even with Jewel, he wasn’t afraid to look stupid, because Chris laughed _with_ him, not _at_ him. Tom never thought it could be so easy to live a friend, to really relate to someone beyond a phony relationship of convenience, to have someone so different from himself that could listen to his banter for hours without interruption, just to call him stupid names next, because friendship also shares the weight of problems, not just a beer on Saturday nights.

He still couldn’t believe he’d found someone like Chris, someone so strong and secure, someone who really could do whatever he wanted, yet he’d somehow decided he liked Tom and wanted to spend time with him. Sometimes he thought about the thugs who attacked him months ago, and he almost felt like thanking them. _Almost_.

"Chris, business is slow tonight, if you want, you can leave earlier, so you and Tom can say goodbye."

Big Ed was cleaning the counter before them with an old rug.

"It's a nice evening, it's not raining, it's a shame to stay in. And anyway, uhm, you have the house keys, so ... "

Tom never saw Big Ed so flustered since the fateful day he found them at the bakery at the crack of dawn drinking chocolate. He was glancing between the two of them with wide eyes, gaze full of awkward amazement. And, behind him, Liz was giggling. Honest to God, _giggling_.

"Why should we want to go home? It's too far, if we want to shut in somewhere, Tom's dorm is just a few steps away. "

It was true, Chris only pointed out the obvious, so why did Ed turn his gaze away, embarrassed? And was he _blushing_, too?

"Are you sure you do not need help? That bungler didn’t come today. "

"It's his free day. Anyway, I'm serious, Chris, it's a slow night. I and the ladies will do for tonight. "

"But…"

Lizzy bumped Ed away with a little smack of her hip.

“Hush darling, don’t worry! Come on, be a good boy and do as your uncle says, take Tom somewhere and have fun, you’ll part soon! And anyway, nobody said a thing about my biscuits yet!”

“Their delicious! Absolutely amazing, you outdo yourself every time.”

“Thank you, Tom. You are adorable, not like those two _beasts_ who never say nice things to me.”

"Hey!"

The two _beasts_ gasped in feigned outrage, thus dissipating the perceived awkwardness dropped between Ed and the boys, and awkwardness Tom couldn’t really understand. How many afternoons had they spent together in each other rooms, why was it strange all of a sudden? Probably, Tom thought, he was just over thinking over a perfectly harmless moment. Big Ed was just a little bit clumsy, maybe he didn’t know how to say goodbye to Tom without being sentimental.

"I’m serious, boys, go out!”

"Well, ok then. Give me a minute Tom, I'm going to take my jacket and then we can go. "

And just a few minutes later they were on their way slowly riding along the Mill toward the Coe Fern. It was already getting dark but the park was always well illuminated, and they could spent hours on one of the benches just picking fries out of a greasy Burger’s King paper bag while talking endlessly about everything and nothing at all.

"What was up with Ed tonight?"

"I have no idea, but he’s behaving oddly for a while now. I guess he can’t wait to get rid of me, when I’m home he’s always asking me why we’re not together, why I’m not with you, if we’ve been fighting, stuff like that. I don’t know mate, I think Christmas time makes everyone stupid. Did I tell you my father is coming? He wasted a few hundred quids on plane tickets to stay here just a week or so."

"But it's wonderful! Come on, he wants to spend the holidays with you, and stop being cynical, I know you’re happy about this.”

“Har har. You know what, six months ago this wouldn’t even be a joke, while now… I don’t know, I miss him. I’m glad to see him again.”

“He’s your father. And maybe he’s been a little too hard with you in the past, but he can’t be a bad person if he’s raised someone like you.”

Chris came to an halt, bewildered. He just gazed to Tom amazed, before catching up to him in a few long strides. They left their bikes chained to a lampshade at the beginning of the Mill as usual, and were now walking along the river in that strangely mild and humid hair.

“You think too high of me, and for absolutely no reason.”

"I do not agree."

No, Tom would never agree on that point, because Chris was really amazing, so full of life and resources, so handsome and with a huge heart. And he was brave as Tom hoped he could one day become, because it's not so easy to change continent, habits, life. Yet Chris had done it nevertheless.

“Anyway, how’s your work out going? I still can’t believe that trainer said you’re out of shape!”

“Don’t remind me! But he’s right, I pretty much stopped working out seven months ago. I need to expand my lungs capacity, get more muscles on.”

“More? But you’re getting huge!”

"Not enough. And anyway I'm not so big, it’s you that are a bird. Liz and Posh are trying to fatten you up, how come you are still so slight with all the sweets they give you to eat? "

"Fast metabolism? I‘m not so skinny... "

"Yes you are, look at your ribs sticking out!"

It always started like this, Chris took him by surprise and started to fluff him up and tickle him until Tom gasped for mercy. Tom couldn’t escape him that time too, because bigger or not, Chris was faster too and, after all, Tom didn’t really want to get away.

Before Tom was actually out of breath, though, Chris stopped tickling him to held him close in a slightly awkward lopsided embrace. Tom let him, and slowly returned the embrace when Chris leaned his head on Tom shoulder, heedless of the darkening sky or that they were amongst the few ones still in the park.

"Do you have to leave?"

"It's almost Christmas. It will only be for a few days. "

"I still don't like it."

"You could come and see me. I have a huge room in Little Stempington. "

"If you stay here it's better."

"Chris ..."

"Oh come on! Again! "

They hadn't been able to say anything else, Tom laughed at Chris outraged expression, he was looking at the sky that had begun to drift without warning. A sudden storm in full force.

"Stop laughing and run! We're getting soaked! "

Chris grabbed him by the arm and started to run, dragging him towards the canopy of a small closed kiosk.

"This time we get pneumonia for sure."

But he was laughing and Tom, once more, really wished he didn't have to take the train that would take him away from Chris for too long.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This will be the last chapter I post till new year. Sorry to whoever is reading, but I won't have time to update in the next few weeks. Happy holidays to all!


	7. When reality is finally better than your dreams (and a nightmare too)

Barry Hemsworth had always been regarded as a hard man, cold and inflexible. Summer Bay High School students – of which he’d been dean for a few years - always thought so, but so did their parents, and the teachers, some of his neighbour too.

Barry Hemsworth was all those things, of course, and he wanted to keep his reputation of a rigid dean, because learning should be expected, not fun, and discipline forges better characters than cuddles. _Maybe_.

Barry’s theory had already been tested and came across defective, both with his students and his son, and even before setting foot on the native land of his ancestors, he’d reconsidered his educational choices.  
Because his son almost jumped into his arms the moment he saw Barry at the airport gate, despite being several centimetres taller than him. Chris crushed him in an embrace so tight Barry wasn’t even sure they had ever exchanged.

Chris welcomed him with such warmth Barry didn’t know how to react, too overwhelmed by his son excitement even jet lag seemed to disappear. Chris didn’t stop talking for a moment all the way back to Cambridge, and Barry thought with a little bit of sadness that it probably was the first time Chris really talked to him without a traumatic or violent event as catalyst. Because he was pretty sure everything was going fine for Chris, and there was any risk Chris was about to be a father, Eddie reassured him profusely.

_Maybe_.

Eddie was also being rather vague about Chris’ dating and new friends, and Barry didn’t know how to take the bits of information he’d received.

But Barry didn't want to and couldn't think about it, because Chris kept asking him about the friends he'd left at Summer Bay and kept talking to him about the ones he had in Cambridge and the class he was going to start in the spring and the new life he wanted to live.

Barry had never seen him so serene, so at peace with his life.

It looked like the awful English weather had really done some good to his son, despite Barry fears that Chris would never got used to it. But he proved Barry wrong once again, because Chris was flourishing, he looked happy as Barry hadn’t ever seen him, not even with Kit, who Chris had believed to be the girl of his life. It actually ended in tears between them.

Barry and Eddie were as different as chalk and cheese, two men with the same surname and little more: they’d always gone in different directions in life. And yet they liked each other enough to think about the other as a friend, not just a distant relative. And so they remained close, in spite of the abyssal distance and the passing time, and Barry didn’t hesitate to send Ed his own son, knowing Chris would be in good hands.

And he hadn't been wrong, as far as he could see: Chris helped at home with no complains, worked hard at the bakery, got back to school, and was reading actual books if the ones on his nightstand were of any indication. His face was relaxed and he was always smiling.

Almost always, actually, but Lizzy had suggested him not to explore the subject, not yet at least.

And so Barry didn’t ask, he didn’t want to risk Christmas with a fight.

Problem was he’d never seen Chris so glued to his phone, the son he remembered left it often at home without a second thought.

"Did they stick the phone to his fingers? He has been looking to that thing for almost an hour. "

After spending a Christmas dinner with Chris eyeing his phone every few minutes, Barry thought he could finally ask for some more information. Not to Chris, obviously, but to Lizzy, that was still working on boxing day too, even if they were all still stuffed up like turkeys. Even Eddie was eyeing her mixing bowl with a worried face.

"It's for tomorrow's breakfast, okay? Chris likes chocolate plum cake. "

"Speaking of, Chris keep sending texts, is it normal? You didn't tell me he’s got a girlfriend. He didn't even tell me "

And perhaps - just possibly - there was a small note of accusation in his voice, more likely jealousy. Lizzy had stopped stirring the mixture in the bowl and had looked first at Barry, then at Chris, who was spread on the sofa in the living room overlooking the kitchen with his cell phone between his fingers.

"Chris didn't tell you about Tom, then?"

"Tom? His friend Tom? Of course he did, but what does it have to do with - " he gestured vaguely in Chris direction.

"Well, I think it does, because he’s texing with him."

"Oh. Cool. So they’re very good friends. "

But he kept looking at Chris on the sofa who was pretending to watch TV while he was just waiting between one beep and the other on his cell phone, and Barry didn't remember having ever seen that look on his son’s face.

"Yes, they’re very, very close."

"Liz, are you trying to tell me something? I hadn't seen my son for more than five months, the son who almost managed to kill himself because of a girl, to found he finally came to his senses enough to decide to come back to school and do something constructive with life because of a _boy_?"

"Would that be so bad?"

Eddie was silent until then, eyes casted down on the table around which they were sit. The kitchen was large, but not enough to contain the tension that was growing more thick every second.

“Bad? What should be bad, I don’t even know what are you implying! And why it’s the first time I’m hearing this!”

"Barry, please don't raise your voice, Chris could hear you."

"I'm not raising my voice, don't tell me not to raise my voice, I asked you to keep an eye on him."

"And I did! Chris is a good kid, he’s a hard worker and helped us a lot since he is here, he never partied till morning, he never got drunk. What should I have told you? What could I have said to him? "

"But this Tom-"

"They are friends, Barry. Maybe they don't even realize what is happening to them, maybe we are just seeing things, maybe it’s all true and they won’t be just friend next month. I don't know Barry, seriously, but tell me: would it be so bad? "

"You ask me if it would be bad ...?"

“Would it? I’m not trying to tell you how to raise your son, I don’t have children and-?”

"Exactly, you don't, you can't know."

It’d been a very low blow and Barry felt ashamed of himself the instant he uttered those words.

Liz stopped mixing her dough, silently removed her apron and left the kitchen without looking at them, while Ed kept staring at him with a white face and a lost expression, unable to say a word. Barry didn’t know what to say too, he wanted to apologize, he must apologize, but he just looked down.

It wasn't Eddie and Lizzy's fault if Chris was giggling at the stupid screen of a stupid cell phone lying on the couch, while reading who knows what kind of stupid message from the stupid English kid who was _ruining_ his son.

“Tom is a brilliant kid, knowing him it’s been good for Chris.”

“Yeah, right, so good being a granddad is something I won’t risk ever again.”

“You can’t blame that kid if…- ”

“Oh, of course not, it’s all _my_ kid’s fault if he can’t keep it in his pants!”

“Barry…”

Ed just shook his head disheartened, but what did he have to worry about? Barry knew he was being unfair, but Chris was his son, his only child, and he couldn’t seem to accept the situation. Maybe he should took Chris back home. Did he want to be a swimming teacher? Great, he would do it in Summer Bay, or Sydney, somewhere Barry could keep an eye on him, and in which there weren’t stupid English kids. That made Chris smile _like that_.

Chris was still on the couch, typing something he couldn’t see, but his expression was so transparent and serene that there was very little to misunderstand. Chris was his son and, despite what he liked to think, Barry knew him pretty well: and he couldn’t remember such expression on his son’s face, not even when he was with “_the love of his life_”.

“Hey, Chris, how about we go out for a walk? I need to stretch my legs a little.”

Barry didn’t dare looking at Ed, just pretended to ignore his disheartened sigh. He needed to get away from that kitchen and snatch Chris from that damn cell phone and what it represented.

He didn’t know what he would do or say once alone, it didn’t really matter, Barry just needed to get away for awhile, take a fresh breath and clear his mind.

If just Chris could chose some other routes, ones he hadn’t talked about so much the previous days and that Barry couldn’t care to record _before_, because how important could be a place or a name? Even if it’ the only one regularly repeated in a sea of places and names never heard before.

Chris didn’t seem to feel the uneasiness that made Barry’s foot heavy, he didn’t perceived the glances his father kept aiming at him. Chris didn’t look at his cell phone, though, not once, and that was a good thing at least. 

"Is there something wrong?"

Or maybe Barry was wrong, because as he was struggling trying to find the right words, his son surprised him with a direct question. But, for the first time, Chris wasn’t goading him, not challenging: in that moment, Chris was a man talking to his father.

“I don’t know, maybe I’m jet- lagging.” Barry felt like a coward, but he’d lost all the will to talk. He didn’t actually want to know, he didn’t even want to imagine, he just wanted to go back home and take his son with him.

“Really, you’ll take it back with you to Sydney, you’re here from days now, how come it didn’t pass?”

"What can I say, I'm getting old."

"Why were you and Big Ed fighting?"

Barry hadn't expected that. The son he remembered didn’t pay so much attention to his surroundings, nor to people around him.

"We weren't fighting, just disagreeing on something, nothing serious, really. Chris ... "

"You were fighting and it’s because of me. If you think he’s covering for me or something just ask, ok? I promised you that I would have behave and I did, I’ll even go back to school! I took the reins of my future, I will become a teacher like you, can you believe it! I won't be exactly a doctor or an engineer, but I'll do something I'm actually good at. "

"Chris, it’s not ..."

"What then? I don’t know what you were expecting from me, that I enrolled to Pembroke too? Well, sorry to disappoint, but you know it’s not for me. I can't compete anymore, but I can still teach others. "

"I know, I know, it 's not ... It' s a great idea, it 's your dream job and I' m happy you finally found your path. Really Chris, I´m your father, it’s all I ever wanted for you. Just ... Could you come back home now? "

"Home?"

"In Summer Bay, with me. Sydney has lots of good school courses and so many swimming pools you could work at, and - "

"Why come back now? I mean, I left Australia to find a new perspective, why should I want to go back now? Tom says - "

Oh, that really was too much. _Tom Tom Tom_, always that damn name, always that damn little kid sticking out. _Tom said, Tom did, Tom always Tom_. The stupid English kid who was taking his son away from him.

"Oh come on! What does this Tom have to do with it now! We are talking about your future, your life, and it cannot be here with this ... this _Tom_! What’s got into you?

"What? What’s the matter with _you_! "

"I don't know Chris, you tell me. I suggested you to find a new path here, true. You found it, that's great. But now, you can't tell me you want to stay here, you would rather be away from home to be with a stupid kid that I don't know what he’s doing to you! "

"Tom’s not a kid, and he’s doing squat to me! He’s the first person who didn’t expect something from me, who didn’t pressured me, if I’m doing something with my life now is just thanks to him! "

"It’s not, you don’t need him!"

"I do, and I don't want to leave him!"

A thin drizzle started again, but neither of them noticed. Chris’s expression was a mask of shocked bewilderment, he’d just practically shouted those words to his father’s face.

Chris himself was amazed by the conviction behind that statement, and he was scared of it too, that was obvious.

Barry just felt for an instant like the ground beneath his feet was falling apart. All he could do was staring dumbfounded at his son. At his very terrified son. Chris was looking at him like a prey awaiting the final assault, and Barry couldn’t stand it. Chris was his son, he risked to lose him countless times already, many of them because of his stubbornness. Chris was all he has left, and here he was, looking at Barry as if he was his executioner, as if he was lost. Again. And it was all Barry’s fault.

Barry sighed and looked down, suddenly he felt so old he thanked heaven for the drenched bench behind them. The silence after Chris’s last assertion lasted too long and was deafening. The drizzle was so thin it made no noise falling on the leaves and on the lake’s water.

"Do you like that boy?" A question, just because he didn't have the courage to make it real yet.

He saw Chris wince, his hands were shaking so much he had to put them under his armpit. He didn’t answer right away, just sat down too, slowly, at the farthest point from Barry, with his head bowed and eyes wide open.

"Chris?"

"I like girls."

It was true. Barry knew that. But Chris was still trembling and didn't look at him, and was scared.

"I know. But do you _like_ that boy? "

Chris looked so desperate, confused and miserable when he answered with a _no?_ so weak and quivering, he looked like a little boy again, like the day Barry had to tell him his mother and brother would never return.

Barry exhaled defeated. He should apologize to Eddie, buy flowers for Lizzie hoping for forgiveness even if he didn’t deserve it. He reached out for his son, and he felt his heart broke when he saw him flinch. He hugged Chris tight, stroked his too long and soaked hair, he hugged him and told him that everything would be fine, that it would pass, that it wasn’t so bad. He wanted to add that he just wanted to see him happy, but thought better of it.

That boy was important to his son and no, it wasn't so terrible if Chris had grown so much in just a few months. If he was serene.

"It’s okay, it's not that bad, you'll see."


	8. Relationships don’t always make sense (especially from the outside)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm really sorry about the delay, and for the unanswered commentes (thanks btw), I'll come around I promise.  
My seven years old dog was killed by a pirate car a month ago now, I'm not in a good place rn, so I'm sorry I won't be as fast as I hoped to with the updates. Sorry.

Not a single snowflake.

Snow wasn’t really common in Cambridgeshire, Chris knew it, and at first he thought it a good thing. But with Christmas so near he’d hoped to see Pembroke roofs and the spires of the King’s College’s chapel covered in white: he never saw anything covered in snow, only sand.

Instead it was just cold, and rainy, and Chris couldn’t really do anything but waste alone in his room pretending to read, because even the gym was closed for the holidays.

It was the last day of that damned year and he was alone in the house, even though it was late afternoon and at the shop they would surely need some help.

His father left for Sydney the day before, although Barry would had rather stay a little longer. But ticket was already paid for, and he had a job and a life back in Australia that couldn’t be set aside, not even for an existential crisis.

Chris still couldn't believe it was really happening.

He’d left his room as little as possible, spoke as little as possible, went out at unreasonable hours to jog. Tom texted him at least twenty times the days before, Chris had red any single one of them but couldn’t bring himself to answer. They should have met in London for the new year big night, they should have drank an entire bottle of whatever under a fireworks light up sky and with the London Eye looking at them. Chris had looked forward for that.

Chris wouldn’t go to London, and Tom must have known it, because after all the texts and an unanswered phone call, he just gave up.

_"Sorry. See you when I come back? "_

It was the last text Tom had sent him that morning, then silence.

Chris didn’t want to talk to him, not even through a phone. Hell, he didn’t want to talk to himself either, but his damn brain didn’t seem able to sop spinning like a mad hamster since his father forced him to look upon a truth he had unconsciously ignored from months.

Problem was, he didn’t know how to feel. He wasn’t ashamed, or confused, nor angry, yet he thought he should at least felt a little bit of everything, maybe a little upset, shouldn’t he? Actually, his real problem was he didn’t want to crave Tom’s return so much, because he knew he wasn’t gay, he liked woman. So much almost all of his troubles had always hailed from liking a certain girl he shouldn’t have. But then there was Tom, who was the best friend he had ever had, and everything else paled at the simple hope to being able to spend an afternoon together, bored to death in Tom’s dorm.

He tried rethinking at his last months in Cambridge, from the very first night he met Tom. He tried to understand how and why _it_ happened, why he hadn’t noticed. When did he start to think of Tom as something _more_? And why, _why_, above all.

Did he like Tom? Of course he did, and if his father as well had known it without meeting Tom, well, it was a quite obvious thing. But Tom was his best friend, why shouldn’t he like him? Of course he did, it was normal.   
So why was it also _weird_? Because he could no longer think about Tom as just a friend. Chris really _liked_ him, as he had never really liked Hayley, who he’d even thought he could marry. He looked at Tom as he had looked at Kit, who was pretty, and was his friend, but had been too much of a free spirit to accept a bond.

Tom, on the other hand, was cute, was his friend, and was strong and independent too, but he let himself be held, and hugged Chris as he was the most important thing in the whole world. Chris felt truly important when he was with Tom, he felt he was able to do anything.

Meanwhile, however, he had lost another afternoon and Lizzy was again knocking at his door for dinner.

He was hungry, but not in the mood to eat, wanted to send her away, but he was also locked in that room from three days and he began to feel the weight of silence. He just felt stupid.

"Chris, I brought you dinner."

Lizzy, however, took away any choice from him by entering the room without an invitation, at the third tap to which he had not replied.

"I'm not very hungry…"

"Nonsense, you haven't even had lunch. And don't bother lying: the kitchen is clean, you haven't left this room all day. "

_Right_.

"Posh sends you some of her scones, blueberries’, your favourites. And I brought you some hot milk, I don't want to hear any reason."

Liz placed the tray on the bedside table next to the bed: the smell of the pastries was absolutely delicious, Posh knew how to tempt him

Chris knew it was not the end, that his aunt would want to talk. In fact she sat next to him, at the foot of the bed.

"Your father called a little while ago. Again. He said you don't answer the phone. "

Because he was a little cross with his father: if Barry hadn’t opened his big mouth nothing would have happened, Chris would still happily living in ignorance. Instead, Chris now knew what he really wanted, and it was a little more than friendship from Tom. Thus, Chris didn’t know how he would face him upon his return.

"He's just worried, you know."

Oh, Chris knew, but did it change something? Because it would’ve been better if Barry never set foot in Cambridge just to open his mouth and made him feel naked and stupid for the umpteenth time. It would’ve been even better if _Chris_ hadn’t set a foot in Britain, because in Summer Bay things were simpler and he wouldn’t have had to worry about losing his best friend and the person he wanted to be with at the same time. They had never been the same person in Summer Bay.

"Chris, you don't have to worry so much, everything will be fine. It's not so bad. "

Those words again. _It's not so bad_. But what? And why?

Of course it was bad, why didn't anyone realize it? Why couldn't everyone see what he saw? He would lost everything for the umpteenth time and yes, he felt it as a terrible thing.

His head begun to throb insistently, his eyes seemed to be squirted out of their sockets like spring puppets. He didn't like that situation. He didn't like it and didn't understand it.

"How can you say it's not so bad?"

"Chris, nothing changed. You like a boy, so? It doesn't change anything, it's not- "

"Don’t say that. Don't say it again, please stop telling me it's not so bad, what do you know? Nobody knows, because I don't like _any _bloke, I like Tom, and yes, it's bad! "

In the end he just exploded like the pain that went down from his temples to his stomach. He bounced up like a spring, suddenly the room felt too small.

"Why did you all have to meddle? What can I do now? How will I face Tom when he comes back? I never wondered, and now I just keep giving myself all the answer I don’t wonna hear! I didn't want to know, it was easier before, we were friends and everything was fine! "

"Chris ..."

"You must not say that it’s not so bad, I know perfectly well that it is."

He wanted to cry so much. Lizzie looked at him with her huge hazel eyes full of sadness and sorrow, and Chris wanted to weep on her shoulder all his tears until he dried out. But it wouldn’t solve anything, and anyway she wasn’t the person he wanted soothing from. His best friend was celebrating New Year in London and was full of bright new outlooks, while Chris was in Cambridge locked up in his room moaning and feeling guilty about making everyone worried about him.

"Tom loves you, you are so cute together and ..."

Instead of crying he burst out laughing. An ugly, strained laugh, but he couldn’t managed to stop himself, because nobody seemed to want to understand and even that was _so bad_.

"Tom and I are not together, we are _friends_. He is my best friend and if I don’t want to lose that I’ll have to lie to him and pretend like nothing changed. "

"I don't think it will be necessary, he loves you-"

"So? All this is different, can anyone please get it? What, have you all lost your minds? What did you think we were doing all this time? "

Lizzie’s embarrassed look was an eloquent answer enough, and once again Chris couldn’t believe it was happening to him. He couldn’t believe he’s been so stupid, that Tom hadn’t run the hills, above all.

"God, was it so obvious? Great, really great. "

When Lizzy finally left, leaving him alone again, Chris had thought of going out for a jog, but it had rained all afternoon and the mud that surely smeared the streets was not a tempting option to the silence of his room.

Lizzy and Big Ed would spent New Year's Eve at a friend’s house, a twenty years old tradition that Chris had to force them to honour. They asked him to accompany them, but they knew well that he would decline, so they didn’t insisted that much. They went out anyway respecting his desire for solitude. And Chris had loved them both even more because they were always there for him, but they never imposed themselves.

He pulled the curtains tight and laid in the dark, hoping to fall asleep, but the midnight fireworks reminded him how useless the thought was: he had been staring at the ceiling for two hours and had neither fallen asleep nor calmed down.

The new year had arrived, the one that should have brought him a new life, but the premises had all been broken.

Maybe his father was right, maybe he should went back to Australia and think of attending his classes there, he and Tom would stay friends and everything would be easier. Chris wouldn’t have to fear losing him. The thought alone gave him a dull ache in the pit of his stomach, but it would be a solution.

Fireworks were still lighting the sky when his cell phone screen lit up. He grabbed it without thinking and pressed the button to read the new text.

_"Happy New Year! I can't wait to be back, so I'll see you :-) "_

He found himself smiling like a stupid kid with his first crush before realizing what he was doing and put the phone away, turning it off.

_“ I can't wait either. Happy new Year to you too. :-p "_

He was so screwed.


	9. I too am untranslatable

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the chapter I warned about at the beginning of the story, so, well, you're warned. ^^' There's a not very descriptive but plainly dub-con scene at the end of the chapter, so know your own boundaries and read with caution. 
> 
> As always, the story is un-betaed, sorry for all my mistakes. 😬

Tom had been in Little Stempington for too long and he was bored out of his mind already. He knew the little town wasn’t much smaller than Cambridge, but it had lost its appeal to him: it was where his parents lived and he came back for that reason only.

He just stayed in his room to study and read for days, the almost incessant rain and even snow had been the perfect excuse to avoid everyone, even if he could have really used a jog in the park.  
Actually, he didn’t want to go out because he was afraid to meet Jewel above all. She was surely home for Christmas, maybe not alone.

He wasn’t sure why he was so afraid to meet her, it had been months since their breakup, and he was happy in Cambridge, he was happy with Chris.

After days and days, his room started to feel claustrophobic and he just had to go out and stretch his legs. He didn’t take his mp3 player with him, just the phone: he and Chris never stopped texting while apart, he would just keep doing it in the park.

He was actually busy exchanging texts with him, planning to see each other again in London for the New Year party - Chris would stay with him at his grandparents house - when Tom heard a high pitched chuckle somewhere before him. Tom raised his eyes from the phone and _she_ was there, a few yards from him: Jewel was wrapped in a fluffy winter coat that looked a little awkward on her slight form, but she looked beautiful as always. Beautiful and pregnant, if he was seeing right. Her underwear model with perfect hair had an arm around her waist and was laughing. They were laughing together.

Tom had spent the last week fearing that exact moment, and couldn’t believe it was actually happening and that he felt nothing. His heart speeded up for a few moments, but it was just the surprise. Jewel was there in front of him, but everything Tom was interested in was Chris’s reply to his last text.

When the beep of a new text received claimed back his attention to the phone, Tom smiled and wondered if he should call Chris instead. He really wanted to hear his voice, it’d been days since they last spoke.

But Chris forestalled him with a new text: he was going out with his father, and would call him later that evening.

When the evening passed without a text or a call, Tom didn’t worry. He did when the radio silence continued the next day too, and all his messages went ignored. When even his call attempt went unanswered, Tom had been certain something was wrong, but what could have upset Chris so much to shut Tom out so completely? A thousand different reasons came to his mind, none of them serious enough to really worry about, maybe Chris just lost his phone?

"_Sorry. See you when I come back?_ "

Tom typed that last message with trembling fingers, and then stared at the silent screen for almost half an hour after doing so.

Perhaps Chris argued with his father and was in a mood. Or he had met _someone_ and was too busy to answer his phone. Tom knew the thousand little and dull reasons could still be valid, he shouldn’t worry, Chris was his friend. Yet, as he looked at the screen, even if he knew it was stupid and irrational, he couldn’t help but to feel a little betrayed.

He wasn’t in his best mood when he arrived to his grandparents’ home, but he wore a smile and a happy behaviour nonetheless. He hadn’t see them or his uncles and aunties from months, and he’d actually missed them.

William and Linda Jenkins were old, very old, but still sharp and on the ball: Bill Jenkins just celebrated his ninetieth birthday last summer and still wouldn’t give up his round of pint every Friday night in the old and smoky neighbourhood pub. He was a regular since so long ago that he had his very seat of honour, and he had been the only accepted judge of every darts match for twenty years and counting.

Granny was a couple years younger and her sight wasn’t so good anymore, but she still crocheted doilies upon doilies with her smart fingers despite her spiteful eyes: she knitted by heart and her works were cute pink and white little clones that were her pride and joy, and the envy of all her old friends with arthritis.

Tom’s mother was the last of three children and the only female, as well as the only one to give birth to _a heir_: her older brothers had had only daughters.

Tom enjoyed the status of favourite _grandson_ for years, had been pampered and spoiled by anyone in the family, from grandparents to uncles to his cousins, all of whom were much older than him.

Mary, for example, the eldest of his cousins, was a mother herself and expecting her second child.

Giada – _not Jade, please_ -, on the other hand, was one of the last born in the family and probably also the most beautiful: she was so alike her mother, Aunt Odìlia, lost in London and in uncle Harry’s heart from her native Brazil almost thirty years ago.

It was Giada who, despite herself, started everything.

She was almost 26 years old and a post-doc fellow at the London Business School, first in her Economy class and the youngest Ph-D of her year. Tom sometimes thought about her when he was facing numbers and economic factors in his courses: he hated numbers.

She enrolled in her economics path with the same philanthropic ambitions as Tom, but she liked to face problems at a more practical angle. Giada was a softie and sometimes so ditsy that no one understood how come she was also so good in her field, but she just laughed at everyone with her new neon pink locks in her chocolate brown curls, while also gathering strays on the streets to be sheltered in friends and relatives houses. She was a fucking genius and a rad girl, so what?

So nobody was really surprised when she brought her new roommate with her to the Christmas dinner first, and the New Year’s one after.

Liva Søndergaard was Danish and was in London for a post-doc assistantship gig at the Business School, it was her first year and she had too much work and not so much money to think to go back to Denmark for the holidays, so she preferred to stay in England. When Giada found it out she was unmovable: Liva couldn’t spent the holidays alone eating noodles, she would spend the holidays with her family.

And thus Tom’s current predicament, as Liva had cornered him against the wall on the upper floor, caught while leaving the bathroom in his grandparents’ house after the new year eve’s dinner.

Liva had approached him as soon as they were introduced a couple of days before, and made no secret of her interest in Tom. She didn’t play cat and mouse as Jewel had tried to do, she had been blunt and never discreet in her pursuing of what she wanted from him. And Tom, just like with Jewel, panicked. He didn’t know what to do, felt so young and clumsy, even if – that time – he had understood right away what Liva wanted. But knowing it didn’t make him feel more confident: he wasn’t like Chris.

Giada’s friend was a typical Scandinavian beauty, tall, very blond and slender, with huge blue eyes and a cute nose sprinkled with freckles. She was so tall she didn’t need heels to be almost level eyes, and certainly she didn’t need to lift up on her toes to kiss him like she was doing.

Dinner had been over for a while, people downstairs were already a little bit tipsy and dancing to music from television while waiting for the midnight, but Bill couldn’t hear a thing beyond his heart beating in his ears. He’d never been kissed like that and his head was spinning, he didn’t know how long Liva kept him against the wall, but he couldn’t find in himself the courage or the will to embrace her. He wasn’t able to do anything at all.

They parted with a wet sound that made him uncomfortable and vaguely ashamed, but Liva just smiled at him while clinging to him even tighter, squeezing her small breast against his chest. Then she took his hand and asked him where his room were with a soft voice, with a small, enticing smile. Incapable to even breath properly, Tom just pointed to a door to her without realizing it, unable to look away from her.

Tom lived what came after like in a dream, a minute they were in the hallway, the next one they were in a small, dim lighted room. Inside, the door blocked all other sounds, the laughers, the music, all the voices downstairs. Liva never stopped smiling and looking at him, she said nothing and Tom had been grateful for that. He was awkward and tense like a violin string, a strange heat was spreading in his belly, and he distantly mused if it was due to the wine he drank at dinner.

Liva made him sit on the small bed, took his hand and guided it to her knee, then under the hem of her dress, and next above the dark hold-ups that covered her creamy white skin, up to her underwear.

Tom never stopped looking at her face, she never stopped smiling at him.

After everything happened, while lying alone and half-naked on his bed, Tom was able to hear the laughter and music downstairs again. Liva returned to the party after smoothing the wrinkles on her dress and putting on lipstick, but it was pretty clear she didn’t care much about appearances. She had smiled at him one last time and closed the door behind her.

Tom’s fingers were sticky and his body felt heavy, but his blood finally began to flow north of his navel, even if not enough to be able to put together a coherent thought.

He’d lost his virginity.

It was pitch dark outside and someone had turned off the music. A chorus of dissonant voices had begun to mark the countdown that would launch them in the new year, and probably Tom’s brain slipped away with _everything else_, because the excitement of sex was overlaid by sadness and loss and shame. And he didn't mind it would also be the only time with Liva: he would leave for Cambridge within a few days, she would return to Denmark in late January, and she was five years older than him. Tom felt actually relieved by that, and it was something he thought he should be ashamed for too.

New Year was there and he was all alone in a dark bed, and Chris wasn’t replying to his texts and maybe was mad at him for whatever reason, and he felt so, so miserable.

His phone laid useless on the bedside table, the countdown was over and the circus of lights and fireworks had begun, downstairs everyone was exchanging greetings and kisses, but Tom didn’t care.

_"Happy New Year! I can't wait to be back home, so I'll see you :-) "_

He felt pathetic and was getting cold, but he couldn’t even bring himself to cover up.

_"And I can't wait for you to come back. Happy new Year to you too. :-p "_

He stared at the illuminated display with something very close to an incredulous happiness and, for a moment, he felt even more pathetic, because he felt like he could cry. Chris wasn’t mad at him, everything would go back to normal, and they would jog again together at the park, and eat Posh and Liz’s delicious pastries leaning against the Fitzbillies counter.

They were still friends.

But he wasn’t in a hurry to tell him what he had left in the old year, and he didn’t want to ask himself why.


	10. Life's under no obligation to give us what we expect

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry I'm taking all this time, I thought it would be easier translating my story without a native speaker beta. Spoiler, it's not. ^^'  
Anyway, hope quarantine is treating you better than it's treating my nerves. :)

Chris met Emma at the gym. He couldn’t call her a friend, really, but she was becoming something more than an acquaintance, it was nice talking with her between his training and the aerobic classes she was teaching. They were around the same age and Emma was exactly Chris’ type: small, athletic, exuberant, so very blond.

After the catastrophic new year’s eve, Chris tried to show some sort of self-respect running miles after miles on the treadmill and lifting weights, just to shun every kind of thought through physical pain. He avoided his reflection on the millions mirrors in the gym too: he was getting really big, and couldn’t help but thinking about how Tom would react seeing him again. Sometimes Chris just wanted to cancel him altogether, or smother him in his arms. All he could do was to add more weight in hope pain would help shut his stupid brain.

“Calm down mate, you’ll tear your shoulder apart like that.”

Emma had approached him as he was adding more weight to lift and, from the state of her clothes, she must have just finished her afternoon lesson. She didn’t bother with a shower first, and Chris was certainly not in a better condition, he was so sweaty that the t-shirt was stuck on him like a second skin.

She had surprised him from behind and then laughed at his half-jerk and his certainly stupid face, but Chris was glad nonetheless to see her, he needed someone to talk to and take off his mind from Tom’s voice in his head.

He had to admit, Emma was pretty, even more in that dishevelled state. So much than less than a year before he would have tried to hit on her immediately.

Instead, she was the one who made the first move, and Chris was kinda whiplashed: they were talking about adductors, then she was asking him out for a drink that evening. And if that sort of thing meant the same everywhere in the world, Emma was actually hitting on him. Wow.

_And Tom?_

His traitorous mind tried to talk him out of the date, but no, Chris had to go, because not going would meant a lot of things he was too afraid to face. He shouldn’t think about Tom that way, or he would end up ruining everything with him, and he couldn’t risk it. Not about _that_. Chris already ruined too many relationship and too many people for _that_ reason.

Emma was smiling at him, and she was pretty, she wasn’t a friend and wanted to have some fun. It could work.

That evening, Chris pretended not to notice Liz shocked look when he announced he had a date with a girl. He didn’t wanted to talk about it, all he wanted was to go out with Emma and forget the lump on his throat. He was tired of thinking about Tom and what he would do when he’d come back from London.

He needed to switch back to old habits for one evening.

Chris wanted to get wasted that night, but he had to rethink that plan: Emma was a total not drinker, and what a bummer it was? He couldn’t drink much either.

They was eating in a smoky pub in the southern part of the city, the part that Chris and Tom often avoided because too full of clubs and crowded with people and little other attractions. But the Grasshopper was one of those places worth visiting, if only for the atmosphere. They were placed in a intimate corner, the food was plentiful and the beer excellent, but Chris wasn’t there for food and beer. Emma was prettier than usual, quirky and funnier than she was at the gym. The evening was going smoothly, Chris was feeling great and hadn’t checked his phone once – it didn’t show any signs anyway – and Emma was casual and carefree enough to induce him in making a move.

"Chris, what the hell are you doing?"

Emma was staring at him dumbfounded while Chris was trying to take her hand looking at her like he had looked at Hayley once upon a time, making her forget Scott for an evening, and kicking off the domino of events that had brought Chris there, in a Cambridge pub with a pretty girl who was looking at him as he was crazy because he was trying to hit on her.

"Oh my God ... You thought I was hitting on you!"

And she had to laugh, too? _She_ asked him out!

"What! Of course not! I did not, I mean, I was just ... "

“You were just making a move. I just don't understand why, I thought we were having fun. "

Okay, things were getting confusing. _What_?

"Indeed! I mean, you asked me out and- "

"And you thought I was coming on you."

"But you didn’t ..."

"No. I _did not_."

Great. Chris had never been so utterly rejected in his entire life. Worst of all, Emma looked mostly disappointed in him, not flattered or upset.

"I'm really sorry. This is very awkward. "

"And it wouldn't have been even more embarrassing tomorrow morning, when you should have told me that there is someone waiting for you ... wherever they are?"

"What?"

“Chris, I asked you out because you look like a nice bloke that could use a friend. I thought you cared a little bit more about this girl of yours who’s keeping you on your toes, I was obviously wrong. I have some problems with mine right now, and I needed to let out some steam too. You’re clearly not a threat and I thought, yeah, it’s like taking two birds with one stone, why not. Wrong again, apparently.”

"Your… _girl_? So you’re ... oh. "

"Yup. _Oh_."

Wow. A pity date. A hot girl like Emma asked him out because he was pathetic enough to not be a menace for anyone. And, oh, it appears that it was really so apparent that he was kept on his toes. Not by a girl, though.

Funny thing was Chris didn’t really want to hit on Emma. She was cute, sure, but Chris wasn’t so interested, he just hoped she could make him forget his _predicament_ for a while.

He was afraid of what he could do once Tom would get back home, and the answer was not even sex, like always with him, because he wasn’t gay and he wasn’t attracted to Tom in that sense, but he really, _really_ wanted to be with him anyway. Ugh.

He just needed another beer, even only to forget that a hot lesbian wasn’t planning to switch team for him.

"If you want we can go, no need to take me home, I'll call a cab."

Emma started to get up, but Chris stopped her.

"No, please stay. We ordered dessert too, remember? Let’s finish dinner first. "

"Are you sure? You don’t have to, it was my mistake, I should have told you. "

"It would have helped, but I had no right to jump immediately to that conclusion, so, my fault, really."

"No problem. So no girlfriend? If you want, I can introduce you to some nice birds. No lesbians, promise. "

Chris just laughed in spite of himself, Emma really could have been his ideal woman. Just his usual luck: he had to meet her when she was already sure she just liked girls, and he himself was spending his days waiting like a lovesick kid for a text from his best friend that he no longer wanted to be only a best friend, but so much more. English humour really sucked.

“Are you sure it's all right? You have a face ... "

"Why did you think I had a girlfriend?"

"What?"

"You said you thought I cared a little bit more about the girl who’s keeping me on my toes. What made you say it? "

“I don't know, instinct? Don’t look at me like that, I’m very intuitive. "

Emma had ordered a disgusting crème brûlée and she started to stir it in her cup with gusto, while he nibbled on an equally disgusting mince pie: good food, good beer, lacking on the pastries. But perhaps it was all Posh and Liz's fault, they spoiled him.

"Your phone."

"Huh?"

“I could tell because of your phone. You were glued at it, always peeking at the display. And when a text did arrive, oooh, you always red it with heart eyes.”

"Heart… eyes…?"

“Yup. You smiled like a loon too.” She took another spoonful of her yellowish mush and savoured it slowly before pointing it at him. “You gave rotting teeth to everyone at the gym, and broke a lot of young and not so young ladies hearts, I assure you.”

Oh, so it was a known secret. Wonderful. Suddenly his mince pie looked a lot more interesting.

“So? Did you two have a fight too? Christmas sucks.”

“Christmas is awful. We didn't fight, though. "

Chris felt uncomfortable. He didn’t think Tom was cross at him. Maybe. Chris ignored him for days, in Tom’s place he would have been furious.

Chris took a deep breath, exhaling “He’s my best friend.” so fast that he couldn’t be sure he heard it himself.

"Sorry?"

"He is my best friend."

"..."

"..."

"Oh."

"Yeah. _Oh_."

"I can't believe it, it’s like a bad pun, you didn’t need a bird, but a beard!"

Emma was valiantly trying not to burst out laughing.

“What? No! I don’t… I’m not gay! And you are not exactly a hackneyed dyke, I was sure we’d hook up tonight!”

“Chris, look, there’s nothing wrong with it, it’s not - ”

“It’s not so bad, I know. But that’s horseshit because I’m not gay, and yes, it’s so terrible I have a crush on my best friend, ok? I’ve had troubles all my life because I couldn’t remember to use a glove with this or that girl, and now I have troubles because I keep it in my pants but carry a torch for my very male best friend. If it’s a joke, I don’t find it funny.”

“Well, it really isn’t. Teen pregnancies usually aren’t.”

"Emma ..."

“I know, not the point. But it’s an important point. That mate of yours must be a fine lad if he’s able to put a leash on someone like you.”

"Tom doesn't know anything."

"Oh come on!"

“He doesn't know. He has no idea what’s going on, he’s probably still in love with his ex-girlfriend and thinks he is so lucky to have found a friend like me. He is the greatest and most naive person I know. "

"Then you're in trouble."

"I know."

They kept eating their desserts silently, then Chris helped Emma with her coat and brought her back home. They gossiped inconsequently about the gym receptionist and the pilates instructor “_secret_” affair, about their plans for the future. They parted at Emma’s door, where she kissed him goodbye on the cheek, wishing him good luck for his problem. Chris smiled a little sadly, then came back home taking the longest road, reluctant to lock himself in his room again.

Liz woke him up next morning, but half an hour earlier than usual, because he had the first shift at the shop and apparently he wasn’t her favourite nephew anymore. Or maybe he was just paranoid and his bacon was crispy like every other mornings, not half baked and soggy.

Chris served teas and lattes, chocolate and blueberry scones, donuts and tarts, helped Posh with deliveries before going back home with Ed at lunchtime. His uncles didn’t asked any questions about the previous evening, but it looked like he was perfectly aware of what could have happened. Ed didn’t seemed fazed at all.

Chris stayed away from the gym.

He didn’t really want to see Emma so soon after the disastrous _date_, and perhaps it was immature on his part, but he still felt a little disappointed about the incident: his pride suffered more than he was willing to admit.

He opted for the swimming pool instead, carefully avoiding to look at his cell phone all the afternoon.

Chris loved swimming, water was his ideal element, each stroke have always had the power of freeing him of the most troublesome thoughts, in the water he was so light he felt like flying. Unlike many athletes he didn’t attack the water with decisive blows but caressed it with soft movements and let himself be guided. He told himself he didn’t mind the lack of texts and what that could mean, he wasn’t thinking about Tom, not wearing himself out waiting for a sign like a dog on a chain.

Tom was due at the Uni in three days, and for that moment Chris was sure he would find a plausible lie to tell him about his strange behaviour through the Christmas break. Tom would believe him. Tom always trusted so easily, because he never lied to anyone and always expected to be repaid with nothing less than honesty. Tom was sure the world was as good and kind as himself, or at least it could be. He also believed Chris was a good, brave kid and his best friend: he was delusional. Tom really was the best person in the world, and he didn’t deserved a fraud like Chris.  
  
Chris turned less elegantly than he would have liked in a supine position, he would swim the tenth lap on his back; he could do it.

When he finally left the swimming pool it was already pretty late, and only few people were around. He felt pleasantly sore everywhere, nothing that a refreshing shower couldn’t heal. He removed his swim cap with a wet snap and started rubbing his hair while glancing at his phone despite himself.

Three unread texts. Tom.

Tom was returning back home. He took the first available train from London a hour earlier, and he’d asked Chris if he could pick him up from the station. A hour earlier.

The train from London took exactly fifty minutes to get to Cambridge.

_"Sorry, you're certainly busy, don’t worry I’ll make do :)"_

It’d been Tom’s last text when he hadn’t got reply. Almost thirty minutes earlier, while Chris was busy humiliating Joeffrey Campbell with an Olympics’ worthy crawl.

_"I'm coming."_

Chris typed frantically, and likewise he swiftly dried himself and put on his sweat suit on his still wet speedo, ignoring the puzzled – and somewhat disgusted – looks of the remaining athletes.

He parked Ed’s car just outside the Cambridge station barely ten minutes after reading Tom’s texts. There weren’t many people left in the station, and Chris could only hope against all odds he did get there on time.

The train was no longer there, but someone still lingered on the platform, people with too heavy luggage, someone for a smoke. And someone because was waiting for Chris.

Tom was bundled up in a heavy coat which reminded Chris how cold it actually was, and of the scarf he left in the car. But he didn’t care: Tom was back, to hell everything else.

Chris hugged him tight against every ounce of common sense in him, he’d promised himself to keep his distance to not scare Tom off, but his determination fell apart as he’d seen Tom smile at him from afar.

"I missed you"

Just that, Tom wasn't ashamed of loving him, and why should _he_?

Chris was screwed, utterly screwed: if, when Tom was away, he kept the faint illusion of being able to control and behave himself, Tom’s arms around him had taken it away. Chris buried his face into Tom’s now long curls, and held him firmly to not give in to the temptation to kiss Tom’s lips and so face his rejection.

"Chris?"

"Hm?"

“You smell like chlorine. I’m chocking. "

But Tom voice was soft and he did nothing to push Chris away. Chris started laughing and hugged him even tightly. Chris was terrified, but also happy, because in that moment he was with his best friend who’s making fun of him.

"God Tom, I missed you a lot too."

They laughed while Chris _light-heartedly_ kissed Tom’s forehead. It was the only shift Chris could impose to his lips.


	11. You can’t be yourself within jealousy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next one will take longer, so much I can reveal. :(  
As always, sorry for any mistakes, you're encouraged to point them up. :)

Coming back to college after Christmas break was less difficult than Tom had anticipated. Maybe because he couldn’t wait to come back to Cambridge, and studying had never been a problem for him.

London was fine, even Little Stempington had be, and the forced inactivity succeeded where even Liz Pastries had failed: he finally put on some weight. His mother kept looking at him with damp eyes repeating how much he had grown up, his father vaguely inquired if he’d met someone special and was rather disappointed when Tom hadn’t mentioned female names. But Tom _had_ found someone special, and he didn’t care if Chris wasn’t _girlfriend_ material, because he was the best of friends and the only person Tom cared hang out with.

But maybe things were changing.

January had come and gone in a whisper, melting and sweeping away the few sprays of snow that had whitened Pembroke's spires, and perhaps even Chris’ affection.

Tom knew that something had happened during his absence, but he couldn’t understand what, Chris had entrenched himself behind evasive and blatantly fake answers, or, even worse, he avoided answering Tom outright. And it wasn't like Chris.

Talking to him about Liva had been a shameful as well as painful experience, Tom debated with himself for days to decide whether and how to do it and, in the end, he deeply regretted it: Chris had looked at him with a mixture of shock, disappointment and even annoyance that Tom didn’t understand, but managed to humiliate him more than he already felt on his own. That was not how he had imagined his first time and, despite the pleasure of sex, he could not help but feeling some distress every time he thought about it.

Tom tried to talk to Liva the day after, but she brushed off everything with a nonchalant smile and a kiss so hungry it made him feel even smaller and stupid. He’d been so embarrassed he literally escaped from his grandparents house and from London. He hoped that talking to Chris would help him dispel the unpleasant feeling about the whole situation, even if the mere idea of telling him about it made him feel sick as if he’d done something wrong sleeping with Liva, and Chris reaction when he’d finally told him had done nothing but prove his fear.

He grumbled, morosely looking at the Cultural Anthropology tome: he was stuck for a hour at the first chapter. It was so boring! He wasn’t interested in exploring how the same object is perceived by different cultures. Or actually yes, he was interested, but in that moment he was already cursing cultural exchanges in general, and with Scandinavian countries in particular.

The bed behind him was sadly empty, Chris rarely stopped by his room anymore, and when he did it was only for a few minutes.

Chris was always busy. He was spending every free minutes he had from work at the gym, or at the swimming pool, and he didn’t even ask Tom to follow him anymore.

Probably because there was Emma.

Tom hadn’t met her yet, and Chris didn’t look so keen to introduce them. The only thing Tom knew about her was that she worked as a fitness coach at Chris’ gym. And that they had one date. Just one.

_Maybe she was his girlfriend and Chris didn't want to tell him._

But why? Chris wasn’t like him, he didn’t take relationships so seriously and surely wasn’t waiting for the first wedding night, he wasn’t even waiting for a special someone, so much Tom knew. Chris always said that at twenty you just had to enjoy life no matter what.

Chris once told him everything. Or so Tom believed, but since Christmas break Chris appeared to prefer other ears for his confidences, and that thought further demoralized him. Tom wished he’d never went to London, he didn’t understand how it could have happened, but in those few days he’d lost everything he thought he had with Chris, and he just felt like crying all the time. And felt even more stupid for that.

He thought about Jewel that, for someone who never really reflect about anything, found herself with everything she ever really wanted: someone who loved her, a family, a child, a content life. Maybe that was the secret of happiness, to turn off the brain and reaching out to take whatever you want.

Tom was jolted awake by an unrelenting knock on the door. He didn’t even realize he’d fallen asleep, nor how long he’s slept, but outside was already dark and he felt too dumb to look at his watch. He opened the door without asking who it was, he was sure it was one of his classmates, so he didn’t think about the state of his shirt.

Except that on the other side of the door there wasn’t Steve, or Andy, or Matt, or any of the other lads he bonded with at the dorm.

"Isn't it a little early to go to bed?"

_Chris?_

“It's half past five, I finished my shift at the shop. Is it a bad time? "

A bad time? Tom hadn’t seen or heard from him for days and that’s all he had to say?

"No, no, of course not, come in!"

In reality he didn't give a damn what he had or didn't have to say in his defense, he was only happy that he had come to visit him, as in the old days. Maybe it was just magnifying nonsense and Kim hadn't strayed at all, maybe he was just busy.

Actually, Tom didn’t give a damn to know why they hadn’t met in so long, he was only happy Chris was there. Maybe he was just blowing a nonsense out of proportion and Chris was in fact just very busy.

Maybe Tom was just afraid to ask and find out that Chris really got tired of him.

He hoped Chris would stretch out on the bed as he had always done, but Chris just stood up there between the little desk and the closet looking around the room as if he were looking for some anomalous details, a change that obviously hadn’t happened.

"Posh sends you some pastries, your favourites." Chris showed him a light coloured paper bag.

Tom was probably actually stupid. He’d reacted as per usual, but it was evident nothing was _as usual_ between them.

Chris stepped aside. Tom was about to hug him – as always – but Chris dodged him. It was a swift move, but it was there nonetheless and Tom noticed it, as he noticed the bag Chris was placing between them to avoid any other contact.  
Tom was so upset he didn’t know what to do, how to react. Chris looked away and smiled casually as he hadn’t noticed anything, just placed the bag on the desk then sat on the bed. As if nothing happened.

Except Chris was conscious something did happen, he was very well aware Tom must feel hurt, the kid was always so transparent it was easy to guess what he was feeling or thinking. Chris really had hurt him.

Chris wanted so much to hug him again, just like he did at the station, but he couldn’t, mustn’t: he was dying to be with Tom again, and must avoid him for the same reason. At least till he’d been able to keep his longing in check.

Because Chris could tell all the stories he wanted, try to convince other and himself that he just didn’t want to lose his best friend over a childlike crush, but the harsh truth was it wasn’t just a childlike crush and he had hoped against all odds in a happy end. Just a little, in silence, without daring saying it out all or even to himself, but he’d hoped to have a chance. Instead, a Danish bitch came along and torn the page away, slamming his fairytale book on his face once and for all.

Chris hated Denmark, and he didn't even know where it was precisely placed on a map.

Tom was nervously fidgeting while still trying to act normal, as Chris hadn’t horribly let him down. He put out his electric kettle to make some tea as he’d always done every time Chris shown up to his room with a bag of pastries.

Chris knew it would be better to cut things short and go away, but he couldn’t bring himself to leave. It’d been days since they’d last seen each other, and he’d missed Tom terribly. So he made himself stay on that bed – _not so hard, let’s be honest_ – and accepted the cup Tom offered him. What was hard was keeping himself from staring at Tom’s lips while he drank his tea, and that too was all that Danish asshole fault. Up until the moment of Tom’s confidence, Chris had been able to pretend that he could truly not look at Tom as a sexual being, because Tom was so innocent and the idea of sex didn’t even brush him. He’d been so stupid: Tom was a boy, and as such he had all the boys’ cravings and itches, and he’d found someone to scratch them with. A Danish bitch, indeed.

Chris could no longer pretend anything, all his paper wall had been blown away one after one, and he had found himself exposed and defenceless against his most shameful desires.

And he’d kissed Emma.

Or maybe she kissed him first, he couldn’t remember and it really wasn’t so important either way, because they were fairly drunk . Yeah, even Emma-the-not-drinker, she’d been – _probably, it wasn’t sure yet_ – dumped by her girlfriend and she was so depressed she convinced Chris to keep her, her obese chartreux, and a bottle of strawberry vodka, company in her tiny flat. Chris didn’t like strawberry vodka – _too sweet_ – and the detail alone should have been a warning, but getting drunk alone was a thought so sad Chris couldn’t say no.

They emptied the whole bottle and an unknown number of beers, and then ended entangled one on top of the other between the sofa and the small coffee table while the cat looked at them, bored. And while Chris was nibbling at Emma’s neck, he called her “Tom”. Emma started laughing so hard she ended up with a hiccup, then she hugged him and told him to bright up, that at least he potentially had almost hundred percent of population to nurse his broken heart. 

He went home tipsy, frustrated and with some knowledge he would had liked to leave at the bottom of the bottle.

The Little Saint Mary’s bell announced it was six in the afternoon at the exact moment it had started to rain again, and again, it would had been the perfect excuse to stand up and go away for Chris: he could go do the gym, to the pool, at home to rest, anywhere really.

“What was so boring in your big books that you fell asleep in the middle of the afternoon?”

But he just couldn’t find the strength to go away, Chris felt like a big, obtuse moth, a hairy mockery of a butterfly too stupid to understand that the light it was so attracted to would end burning it.

Tom chuckled, a little awkward, and Chris couldn’t help but smile: he’d missed that sound too.

“In short, about how a Muslim rather than a Hindu would look at a rug.”

"Are you kidding me?"

"If only."

"Remember me, what are you studying for?"

Tom laughed again, more relaxed, and sat at the foot of the bed. Chris had stopped wondering how he could decipher every change in Tom’s posture, every nuance in his expressions, he already knew the answer to that question and it no longer frightened him, it only made him sadder: Chris had studied Tom as he studied from his books, and had memorized all he could.

Too little for Chris tastes, but he was learning to make do for once, Chris was so tired of losing the people he loved because of his toxic voracity.

Chris tea’s gone cold without him even noticing, he was too busy gazing at Tom, and resist the temptation to get closer and fix his silly hair. It’s for sure, it’s the point of no return to find adorable a messy head of ridiculous flattened curls.

"Tea’s ok?"

"What?"

“You didn’t drink it. It tastes as usual to me, but if you want I should still have some milk.”

“No, don’t worry, it’s fine. I’m not really in the mood.”

Chris couldn’t believe their chats were reduced to that, few useless words interspersed with awkward silences. Until Christmas holidays they could have spent hours laughing at nonsense and silence didn’t existed, because even it, between them, communicated.

He should go away, Chris knew he’d have doing it sooner, the longer he stayed the more difficult it was to get up of that bed, the more difficult it was to keep quiet and, above all, still. He got up.

"Are you going already?"

"Yes, well, I have to. It's getting late."

Tom nodded stoically as if he understood the situation very well, when he truly couldn’t. Tom got up too and placed his cup next to Chris’ on the desk without looking up from the bottom of the mug, as if he was looking for answers in the tea leaves.

“Even if you have a girlfriend now, we’ll still go to Australia someday? I would really like to sea the waves brought by the southern winds, even if you won’t have to teach me to surf.”

Tom smile was so sad Chris felt his own heart sinking.


	12. This is where it all begins. Everything starts here, today.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the end. I actually was able to finish it in "record" time, can't believe it. I hope, as always, there are not too many mistakes, if so please let me know (or not, as you prefer ^^).  
Thank you to everyone who read it, I hope this last chapter won't disappoint you.

The week of Valentine's Day passed in a jubilation of sweets and newly formed couples, but Tom wouldn’t have even noticed if he had not received two chocolate hearts from as many colleagues of his Social Psychology course, gifts that he decidedly hadn’t expected: Tom didn't think he was the object of interest of any of his female classmates, at the most he thought they were hanging out with him because they were interested in Chris. Above all, he couldn’t believed he could be Emily’s type, with her perpetually sulky expression and her ostentation of a noble title that had given her more digs than she was willing to admit of having heard: but if your name is Wetmore-Story, blue blood cannot help you, even if directly related to the Royal family.

He also tanked and gave back the gift to Gillian, who was so pretty and very nice, but Tom didn’t want to risk she could think he returned her interest. Tom didn’t want to be interested in anyone, he just wanted to study, to get his degree and then moving to London for a Phd at the Business School with his cousin Giada.

Chris and him hadn’t met in over a week. Two week if Tom didn’t count the occasions they just accidentally met at the Fitzbillies and at the park. They kept in touch through texts and Tom really couldn’t understand: he tried to answer to as few messages as possible, but the less Tom texted, the more Chris insisted, sometimes even calling Tom out of the blue. Tom was going crazy, they were practically neighbour, they could see each other all the time!

They would never go to Australia together, Tom was sure of it. Chris would go back some day, but alone. Or maybe with Emma, or who knows who else.  
Tom still couldn’t believe he’d spent an entire afternoon on the internet during the Christmas holidays looking for wetsuits. And boards suitable for beginners like himself. He’d even considered a Phd in Sydney, he would like to work with the Aboriginal community, studying that part of the Commonwealth more thoroughly and making himself useful.

Sometimes his brain felt like a crazed hamster who could no longer get off the wheel, he just kept thinking and thinking, brooding over every little detail of the past months, trying to figure out what he could have done – or not done – to push away someone he believed to be his best friend. Jewel’s reasons, well, Tom managed to understand – and yes, she’d been a bit of a bitch, but whatever – but, when he thought about Chris, he just ended up wondering how it had happened, and how he couldn’t realize that he’d been a fill-in all along. And maybe it wasn’t fair to think so, but Tom felt exactly as one.

When he slid down that slop, the only thing Tom could do to preserve his sanity was to study even harder and mark another notch in the calendar, because he couldn’t and wouldn’t lose more time.

Tom waited above two weeks since Chris last visit before deciding that, whatever the state of his relationship with Chris, he would not give up Fitzbillies’ chelsea buns. He wasn’t afraid of meeting Chris. Or maybe of not meeting him. Tom’s opinion on the matter varied from time to time.

He went to the shop on an unexpectedly clear sky afternoon, the air was too cold to be already late February, and he was in a gloomy mood: he needed urgently some sugar and hot chocolate.

“Tom! It’s so good to see you again! Come sit here, I’ll bring you some biscuits, I just baked them!”

Lizzy welcomed him warmly as usual, there’s just an out of tune note in his voice, it was too cheerful, as if she was trying to make up for something.

Big Ed was not behind the counter, the place was ladies’ reign that day, and Tom felt a jab of disappointment: Thursday afternoons were Ed free hours from the shop, so Tom had unconsciously hoper that someone else would be there with the ladies. But there was only Stewart, whom Tom had discovered with great surprise, was a St. John’s pupil and was top on his Physics class. Even if he regularly got receipts wrong.

In the end Tom didn’t take hot chocolate or anything else. He picked at Liz’s delicious biscuits, then took the buns Posh wrapped for him to take back to his room.

But when Tom was about to leave, he’d been frozen on spot by a well known voice. Chris just went in the shop, and he wasn’t alone.

The mysterious Emma of whom Tom had heard too little of was bundled in a raw wool coat that couldn’t hide her petite and pretty shape anyway. Next to Chris she looked like a titch, but she was too pretty to note the detail: she’d very blond and smooth hair under the thick wool hat, big eyes, a lively air. Tom perfectly understood why Chris fell for a girl like that, why shouldn’t he? They also had the same interests and ambitions, they were both beautiful, just made for each other. It would have been stranger if Chris still preferred Tom’s company.

He’d rather not seen them, though. As cute and probably very nice that girl was, Tom was angry. Because it wasn’t fair Chris treated him like that, making Tom believe they were friends when, actually, all Chris needed was someone to pass the time while waiting for someone better. Just like Jewel. Who was an asshole, Tom could tell at that point, but then Chris was an asshole too.

"Tom! What are you doing here?"

An asshole who’d no right to look at him as if Tom was a third wheel, because Tom was at Fitzbillies for the Chelsea buns, not because he’d hoped to see Chris. Obviously.

“I was feeling peckish. I’m leaving now. "

Tom showed him the paper bag putting it between them, just as Chris had done two weeks earlier. He hadn't done it consciously, but he wanted to keep the distance: not that Tom thought Chris would get to close, surely not with Emma right there.

Emma, who was looking at them with an unreadable look, but Tom didn’t want to pay attention to her, he just wanted to go back to his room and forget about Chris, eat his buns and go to bed, even if it was too early to go to sleep. And then maybe he would call his mother and arrange to go home for the weekend.

Emma nudged Chris to shake him from his clear embarrassment, and Tom hated both of them even more for the intimacy they were showing, and that made him feel truly unwanted. She stuck out her hand and introduced herself before Tom could dribble both of them and go out of the shop, so Tom was forced to shake it. It wasn’t Emma’s fault, she looked like a fine girl, Chris seemed to be happy, so it wouldn’t be fair to take it out on her. It was Chris who lead him to believe they were friends, just to set him aside at the first occasion.

Tom made an effort to be polite, apologized and tried again to go away.

“Come on, stay, let’s eat here.”

Chris face was so tense it was clear as day that he would rather be somewhere else. Or maybe, he would rather _Tom_ was somewhere else. And the thought hurt Tom more that he cared to admit even to himself.

“No, I have to go. I’ve already wasted too much time, that’s enough.”

Tom nodded at Emma one last time then left without a word, without bothering to look at Chris one last time. As far as Tom was concerned, they already exchanged their last goodbyes.

He spent the next couple of hours studying feverishly, but wasn’t able to memorize a single paragraph. The buns were still on their paper bag, forgotten and cold on the corner of the desk. In the distance, Little’s St. Mary’s bells struck the quarters to eleven and Tom mentally cursed himself, because it was too late to call his mother.

He closed the book of… actually he didn’t even know what he had read in the past two hours, which wasn’t comforting. He wasn’t sleepy, but there was no point in keeping up studying, his mind was somewhere else.

He’d been forced to turn off his phone, he was going crazy for the nonstop beeps of the incoming texts, above all because Tom knew very well who was sending them: he barely managed to keep himself to thrown the phone out of the window.

What was the point? Chris ignored him, worse, blatantly avoided him, and then expected to keep Tom glued to his phone with texts and calls? Why, he was no longer in Little Stempington, he was just a few feet away. And he didn’t need a bone, Tom wasn’t a dog and didn’t need company at all costs. He knew other people, would make other friends, Tom didn’t need Chris, he should stay with his girlfriend and leave Tom alone.

Nobody would ever know how much time he wasted crying in the shower that night, really like a dog abandoned on the highway, a pathetic little boy who felt alone again. Tears mixed with the water, and he dried them off hastily pretending they were never there, because it had been just a moment of irrational weakness. Because the only one who could have soothed him was an asshole.

He wasn’t in the mood to welcome guests, certainly not at that hour and not with his hair still damp. He tried to ignore the persistent knocks, but whoever it was wasn’t giving up. Maybe it was one of his classmates that needed help? It was very late, maybe he should really open the door.

"You didn't reply to my messages."

What was Chris doing outside his room? The dorm was closed to visitors so late at night, how did he get around the keeper?

“He’d seen me with you so many times he thinks I’m a student too.”

_Great._

"Won’t you let me in?"

"I was going to bed, I have to get up early."

“Tomorrow is Friday, and your first class starts at ten, classrooms are across the yard. You don’t have to wake up so early.”

Tom blushed lightly, caught lying. He certainly couldn’t imagine Chris knew his study plan and his schedules even better than him, but when you organize your free time around another person’s, you end up memorizing even apparently insignificant minutiae just to be able to spend every possible moment with that person.

Tom moved slightly opening the door to let Chris in, and he let out a small sigh of relief: at least Tom didn’t send him away.

When Tom had left the shop with a greeting that had felt like a sentence, saying that Chris have had a breakdown was an underplay. Luckily Posh dragged him at the back of the shop, or he would have broken down before all the regular patrons.

He hadn’t expected to find Tom there, he hadn’t expected his aloofness, even though Chris knew he deserved it. He hadn’t, above all, expected to be downgraded as _a waste of time_: and he knew really well what it meant for them.

He’d sent Tom text after text, all unanswered. He’d tried to call, but Tom had turned his phone off. He couldn’t believe it was really happening, Chris had tried everything to prevent it, and yet it was turning out as in his worst nightmares: Tom was leaving, he’s losing his best friend.

Emma had kept babbling about absurd things until Chris asked her to leave, he didn’t need pretty lies to make the loss more bearable. Because that’s was it, a loss, and there was a cruel irony in that: he’d tried to preserve their friendship, to not frighten Tom off, but he had made all the wrong choices.

_As usual._

Chris didn’t even know where he found the nerve to go to Tom’s dorm, he’d have to wake up at dawn the next morning for the first orientation class, but he didn’t care: Chris knew he wouldn’t be able to sleep that night anyway, and Tom wouldn’t wake him up with a rings and a threatening text, Chris favourite way to start his day.

"I think we should talk."

Problem was Chris didn’t know where to start, how to explain himself. What he was supposed to tell him? He’d probably prepared a speech with plausible justifications, but his mind was just a blank slate.

“I don’t see why. I think I should go to bed anyway, it’s late.”

“Not so late, we’ve done worse even before a test.”

Chris hoped to soften Tom resolve with a pleasant memory, but Tom didn’t seem willing to cut him any slack. Tom merely raised an eyebrow and pointedly looked at his alarm clock on the desk. _You’re wasting my time_, the message was clear, and Chris would have liked do disappear. Everything was going to hell for the umpteenth time.

"I want to go back to Australia with you, I promised to teach you to surf."

"It doesn't matter, neither of us would have the time anyway."

"We are friends, we can find it and-"

“Really Chris, why are you here? I don’t understand, this is so not necessary. You don’t need to justify yourself for anything, we’re not children. We’re both adults that know how things go: people meet, they’re good together, then things change and are not so good anymore. That’s it. It doesn’t matter, life goes on. You don’t have to find excuses because you’ve found other interests and people better suited for you. I’m happy you did. I would have liked a little more honesty from you, but that’s ok, certainly it’s not a fault to want other things.”

Chris was speechless. Or maybe too many words battled to come out at the same time. He wanted to laugh, then cry, and he’d had done it if he wasn’t afraid of looking crazy. Because Tom once again aimed at the heart of the problem, but misunderstanding. And how to blame him? He couldn’t know, Tom didn’t even imagine what the _thing_ was.

In the end Chris just smiled hoping he wouldn’t look too stupid, and moved closer to Tom. He had nothing else to lose.

"You're right, I want other things, I don't want to be just your friend anymore."

Then he leaned forwards enough to touch Tom’s lips with his own. It’d been a chaste kiss, like Chris hadn’t done since seventh grade. His lips were closed and dry, he put too much pressure and his heart was exploding in his ears. He’d wanted nothing else but kiss Tom for weeks and, when the chance presented, he’d done it like a kid with his first crush.

“I’m so sorry Tom, I didn’t want it to end like this, I tried so hard not to want other things, I really did. I wanted at least to be your friend, but I ruined everything.”

Chris couldn’t look Tom in the eyes afterwards. He’ rather not to deal with the reality of Tom’s refusal and disappointment, he couldn’t take another look like his father’s ones.

Tom was motionless. He obviously hadn’t returned the kiss, was just silent like a salt statue.

“I swear it will never happen again, I’ll make it never happen again. Please, just give me some time, it will go away, I’ll do anything to make it go away. I promise.”

The silence that fell in that small student room was so perfect the only thing it could be heard was the rhythmic ticking of the alarm clock. Chris didn’t know how long he stared at his hand counting his heartbeats hoping they slowed down enough so his heart wouldn’t explode. Tom was like frozen, and how to blame him? If the parts had been reversed, Chris didn’t know how he would have behaved, probably not so calmly. He’d never faced situations calmly, that’s why he always ended up in trouble.

But silence could be eloquent too. With a defeated sigh he straightened up collecting the last shreds of his ego and his heart in pieces, and he started to go towards the door, because it was evident that he had nothing to do there, there was nothing to save.

He’d hardly moved when Tom’s hand touched his arm. It’d been a very light touch, enough to make Chris think he had imagined it. But Tom had moved.

"But I don't want it to go away."

When he finally found the courage to look Tom in the eyes, Chris didn’t see annoyance, disappointment, or worse, aversion. Tom looked dumbfounded. He was looking at Chris with wide eyes, uncertain maybe, but not angry. 

"Tom ..."

"Seriously. I don't want it to go away. "

Tom repeated it firmly, with more confidence in his voice, looking Chris in the eyes. And Chris couldn’t believe it: Tom was before him and wasn’t sending him away, was not running away.

When Chris moved closer to kiss him again, to really kiss him, the fear hadn’t go away, it was hissing in his ears like a siren.

It was Tom that tightened his grip on Chris arm, brought him closer with an almost imperceptible pressure, but that was there nonetheless.

"Really. It's okay. "

And Chris almost thought it was a shame to cover a smile like that. Almost, tough.

****

Tom had never had problems falling asleep, as well as waking up early. His mother always said that good boys with a clear conscience have no unpleasant thoughts to keep them awake at night, nor problems they don’t want to deal with in the mornings.

Tom couldn’t slept that night, but there wasn’t troublesome thought that tormented him: he didn’t want to get out of bed, but wasn’t the weight of a problem that was keeping him there, but a blonde head that was using him as a pillow.

Chris was sleeping soundly and didn’t look as he would wake up any soon, but Tom was fine with that. He’d never thought it could be so nice to share a small bed, to share a blanket and skin’s warmth. He’d never thought it was possible to love someone so much he’d willingly abandon any known route to take a path he never thought he would want to explore. Before Chris, though.

Tom felt so stupid to have totally misunderstood his own feelings for Chris so much: the truth was he probably fell for Chris from the start, when Chris had brought him hot chocolate and a frozen pastry in a closed and dim lighted bakery.

Tom never imagined he could love another man. But, less than a year before, he wouldn’t have even imagined to fall for a girl like Jewel, or to lose his virginity with an older stranger that he would never see again. He hoped. Tom still didn’t really feel comfortable thinking about Liva.

He was a little afraid and perhaps his mother was right, unpleasant thoughts were bound to keep one awake, because Tom was naked, was holding tight another naked man, and still felt a little, well… sticky. Also happy, though. And confused, and he didn’t know how his world would react the next morning.

He held Chris closer hoping at the same time to wake him up and that he would keep sleeping, Tom wasn’t sure which option he preferred: he wanted to look in Chris’ eyes to find out he wasn’t alone in his worries, as it had been only a few hours earlier when, lying down for the first time together on the same bed, he’d looked at Chris and his eyes had reflected Tom’s own fear for what they were going to do. Yet Tom wasn’t ready to face everything and to lose the weight on his heart, it keep him anchored to something solid and real.

Not like it had been in London, in another small room. Chris had undressed hesitantly, watching him doing the same. They’d kept kissing for so long Tom thought they would fell asleep like that, with their lips still touching. They didn’t just kiss. And Tom would never forget Chris words when they were about to explore more.

_“I don’t know what to do. I’ve done it so many times, but I don’t know what to do now. It’s really my first time.”_

Tom hadn’t know what to say, just kissed him deeply. But Chris already knew: _that_ was _their_ very first time.

And all had been so clumsily perfect Tom still couldn’t believe it.

The alarm on Chris’ phone set off abruptly in the perfect silence of the dawn, startling Tom. Chris just stretched annoyed, then pushed his face against Tom’s willowy chest.

Then jumped up like a spring, sitting on the bed, suddenly very awake.

“Why didn't you wake me up? I shouldn't be here, I'll be late! "

Chris swiftly leaped over barely avoiding knocking Tom down in his haste, then proceeded to thump against the desk and the closet several times while trying to collect and pull his clothes on as quickly as possible.

Tom sat on the bed looking at him in disbelief as Chris moved about in a urgency Tom could not comprehend: it was six in the morning, why was Chris leaving in such a hurry? Had he already changed his mind?

Meanwhile, Chris put his coat on and ran out without a word.

The subsequent silence felt unreal, Tom could clearly hear his breathing, and all the small cracks he felt opening in his heart. He sat between still clammy sheets and blankets, suddenly feeling cold and raw.

He would have cried if he wasn’t too stunned for any reaction: Chris had barely looked at him, got dressed and ran away. After their first night together.

Maybe Father Peenas was right, because sex is a sin and sins are always punished? He was pretty sure the rest of the world who didn’t practice abstinence wasn’t faring so bad, though. Maybe it was really just his fault.

Tom didn’t know how long he’d been staring at nothing when it was shook up by the door of his room which was opened whit a near bang: Chris stood at the door, his eyes wide and hair tousled, sweaty like someone who run up and down the stairs too many times.

He rushed to the bed towards Tom, hugged him tightly and kissed him like in the movies, and yeah, Tom suddenly felt very inclined in forgiving him.

"Good morning."

It had been just a whisper on Tom’s lips, and Tom had replied with a small little smile. And pleased: everything was fine.

Chris didn’t loosen his embrace, just kept holding him tight as he brushed Tom face with his lips, like in a rom com cliché. But Tom was fine with that, with Chris he would gladly drown in clichés.

"I have an orientation meeting for my coach class, it starts at 8."

"You will be late."

“It doesn't matter, few more minutes won't change anything. Will you be at the shop after your classes? "

Tom smiled happily, because that was like a magic formula for them, used for weeks, months, since they knew each other. Tom nodded and kissed him again, closing his arms around Chris shoulders. Chris smiled against his lips and let himself be held tightly.

“Good. And brush your teeth as you’re lucky enough to have the time.”

Tom moved away from Chris as fast as he could, went as far as possible from him on the bed blushing furiously: he must smell disgusting!

But Chris simply started laughing before reaching for Tom over the bed and drag him back to himself and kiss him hard.

"See you later."

Chris was still laughing when he closed the bedroom door behind himself for the second time that morning, but Tom didn’t care. He was happy. They were happy.

And when they would meet again at the Fitzbillies that afternoon, Tom would be the one who’d kiss him first.


End file.
